


Bits of Her Soul

by Dramatological



Series: Unspoken Accords [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Creepy, Dark, Descent into Madness, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Multi, Murder, Psychological Horror, Rape, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Suicide, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 52
Words: 40,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramatological/pseuds/Dramatological
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The Inquisitor swore they were spiders. Hawke just saw her mother. Her mother's head on some other women's stitched together bodies.</i>
</p><p>---</p><p>Hawke is losing pieces of herself in the fade, a sacrifice to save the inquisition.  A story told in vignettes.</p><p>If you have no knowledge of the game, the finer details might escape you, but you shouldn't be entirely lost.  THIS WILL SPOIL ALMOST EVERYTHING.</p><p>This includes many call backs to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570">Blind Panic, Random Direction</a>.  Not required, but recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> If you're a returning reader, you may be walking into this expecting a comedy. I'm sure there will be some.
> 
> I just figure, now that I've convinced you I'm harmless, it's a good time to introduce the cattle prod.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I make no claim over any DA:2 or DA:I characters, settings or plot points. All of that belongs to Bioware. All hail the Bioware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rape and murder in this chapter.

_Love of mine_  
_Someday you will die_  
_But I'll be close behind_  
_I'll follow you into the dark_  
_No blinding light_  
_Or tunnels to gates of white_  
_Just our hands clasped so tight_  
_Waiting for the hint of a spark_  
\-- Death Cab for Cutie,  I will Follow You Into the Dark

Pre-dawn grey gilded the window frame when Hawke opened her eyes. She narrowed her eyes at it. She didn't recognize the window. She turned over, looking around in confusion before she spotted Fenris, sleeping peacefully beside her in the sinfully large bed. An inn, then, one of several they stopped at when tracking slavers through the marches.

She stretched, luxuriating and enjoying the slip of expensive sheets against her bare skin. It was good to be rich. Especially with such company to share it with. She rolled, curling up next to her elf and kissed his shoulder. When that didn't rouse him she wriggled closer and licked at his neck. Still sleeping.

Hawke went for a more direct approach and ducked under the sheets, nipping a trail down his side and around his hip, working her way in. His hand found her head before she reached her goal and strong fingers tangled into her hair, rubbing at her scalp, "You will spoil me," he grumbled, only half awake.

"That was the idea," she murmured, her lips against his navel.

The hand vanished only to be replaced a second later with the other as he rolled towards her, onto his side, his already hard cock rubbing against the side of her neck. She grinned, scooting farther down and pillowing her head on one folded arm, her other wrapping his hips to hold him close.

There were no teasing licks or hard gripping or even any movement. This wasn't that sort of oral sex. This was the languid, sleepy kind. She held him in her mouth, as deep as he'd fit without her having to hold her breath and suckled. The gentlest suction, then released only to return.

As the elf slipped into full consciousness he started to rock gently against her, a low, approving noise starting in his throat. Soon, his hand closed around the back of her head and she took a deep breath just before he pressed into her. She willed her throat to relax and took him in willingly, holding her breath, her lips pressed hard against his pubic bone. He held her there for a long moment, strong fingers rubbing encouragement into the back of her neck before he released her and pulled away, reaching for her.

Hawke panted to regain her breath, letting Fenris manhandle her up the bed and slip between her eagerly spread thighs. The idea of catching up was soon thrown out when he thrust into her, deeply, sliding inside easily as if made to fit just there. She gasped instead, arching her back and pressing against him.

"So wet," he whispered against her neck, as he started to thrust, slow and firm, determined almost. She could practically hear the muttered mantra of 'mine…. mine… mine...' each time he bottomed out inside of her, "So soft," he said instead, his hand sliding up over her stomach to her neck, "I'm going to enjoy breaking you."

Hawke had just a second to be confused by that before his hand tightened, fingertips digging into the sides and his other hand joining the first. She couldn't breath. She bucked a little, reaching up to pull his hands away, but he wouldn't release her. The elf was grinning at her, his thrusts turning rough, violent even, tearing into her while he choked her.

Hawke panicked, clawing at the hands that would not allow her breath, slapping at the face that was so very pleased with itself. She bucked, twisting, but couldn't throw him off. Fenris laughed softly, riding her wild struggles with ease as he drove into her again and again, "I knew you'd be a fighter," he purred, his hands twisting around her throat, blood from her nails seeping, "I do love a fighter."

Something cracked in her neck and stabbing, tortured pain shot through her. Her ears rang and her vision darkened as she continued to struggle to breathe, to get away from the screaming agony of his grip. He chest was going to burst from the pressure, and she could feel her heart, throwing itself wildly against her rib cage, desperate for it's own escape. She could feel tears leaking from her eyes, sliding down her temples to drip onto the pillow. She stared at the man she loved, the man she'd sacrifice anything for, the man who was killing her, confused and heartbroken.

That only seemed to excite him further and Hawke's last conscious thought as the world slipped away from her, was the sensation of him climaxing with a pleased groan, pumping his seed into her dying belly.


	2. A Lifetime Ago

Hawke stopped at the edge of the long stone bridge entering Skyhold and let her pack drop from her shoulder. Her eyes traveled up the massive stone walls surrounding the keep and she sighed. Here she was, getting herself into trouble again because the world couldn't be trusted to keep spinning if it didn't have someone to make miserable while doing it.

She knuckled her back, tired from a long day of walking -- her horse had thrown a shoe, on the last peak and she'd led him here. The horse nosed a bit at her back, looking for the apple he knew she had stuffed in her pocket and she turned to pet his nose. It wasn't too late. She could still turn back, run home to Fenris. Seemed a shame, though, getting so close to Varric and not seeing him again.

Turning, Hawke bent to pick up her pack again, only to find a large hand in her way. She looked up at one of the bigger qunari she'd ever seen, watching her with one openly curious eye and offering his hand to her, "Marian Hawke," he said when she met his eyes, a smile appearing.

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him and looked down the bridge behind him. Varric was no where to be found. She turned her eyes back on him, then his hand, "Why do I get the feeling you're the scariest motherfucker in Skyhold?"

His chest puffed up, and his smile morphed into a grin. He considered her words a compliment even as he denied them, "Me? I'm a teddy bear, wait till you meet Vivienne. The Iron Bull," he said by way of introduction, "Had one of my guys watching for you."

"I didn't know anyone knew I was coming."

Massive shoulders hitched up in a shrug as if he just couldn't help being psychic, "Noticed Varric looking more sour and unwilling than usual, muttering about Coryphaeus and writing his letters after we got here. I put two and two together."

"So you are the scariest motherfucker in Skyhold."

His grin widened, "Yes, ma'am."

She looked back down at his hand, still hanging there between them, waiting patiently to be acknowledged, "And you know what that means…" she prompted.

"Every qunari in Kirkwall had standing orders about what that means."

She looked up at him, surprised, "You were in Kirkwall?"

He shook his head, "No, I just have friends."

"Friends," she repeated, and the answering amused narrowing of his eye confirmed her suspicions about what he meant by the word. She twisted her lips, unable to help the answering smile she gave him before she reached forward and gave him her hand.

The qunari puffed up a bit more and squeezed her fingertips with a calloused thumb before he bent forward and hooked her pack with his free hand, swinging it over his shoulder and turning to lead her across the bridge, "Welcome to Skyhold, Hawke."

"Good to be here," Hawke answered as she fell into step beside him, pulling the horse along after, "You know I ended up killing the last qunari who took my hand."

"I live dangerously."


	3. Reunion

Hawke was hiding in the lower libraries when Cullen found her. She'd cleared some of the cobwebs away from a table and sat writing a letter to Fenris in the hopes that by the time he got it, it would be too late to stop her from pulling off her latest hair-brained scheme. She looked up when the former templar entered the short, thin hallway, then smiled as he had to carefully navigate the piles of ancient texts and tiny little doorways in his armor.

He stopped at the door and tilted his head at her, unsure of his welcome.

"Knight Captain," she breathed, an exhale of satisfaction perhaps, or long anticipated completion, "Or… Commander, now, yes?"

He shook his head, "Cullen. Just Cullen," He took a breath, "For you, just Cullen…" He broke and strode into the room, pulling her out of her chair and into a bear hug, "Ahhh, Red. I've missed you."

Hawke buried her face in the feathers by his neck and breathed in his familiar scent with a wave of nostalgia. Sweat and leather and dust, ink and parchment. The hint of summer rain was surely just her imagination. She pulled back as he released her, just enough to straighten the feathers around his shoulders fondly. She stopped when she realized that was her affectionate fussing for Anders. She lost the smile and curled her fingers into fists. A moment, then she deliberately brought the smile back and fussed at his vest instead, "That's because you're a masochist."

He squeezed her shoulders, "I must be, indeed." He looked down at the table, "Bad time?"

"Never a bad time for you, Cullen," she said, settling back into her chair and pushing the other out with a slippered foot, "I'm leaving for Crestwood in the morning, so it's not getting any better, either. How did you find me?"

The commander lowered himself into the offered chair and pulled the vial of her blood from his pocket, setting it down on the table between them.

Hawke laughed, seeing it, "You still have it. You could track me through the void with that. I'm surprised Cassandra didn't beat it out of you."

Cullen smiled, "I only found out she was looking for you, recently. It apparently never occurred to the Seeker that the only phylactery to survive Kirkwall would be yours, nor that you would give it to me."

"Can't imagine why. Makes perfect sense."

"Yes, but you're quite mad," he said with a teasing grin. He looked down at the vial before he pushed it across the table to her with a fingertip, "I don't know if you've heard…" He looked up at her, eyes gentle, "I've left the order."

Hawke just nodded simply before she leaned forward to push the phylactery back towards him, the blood bursting into a brilliant blue glow when her finger touched it, "If the lack of a circle doesn't end your obligations, Cullen, I can't imagine the lack of an order would."

Cullen stared at the vial, respectful and a little afraid, "I don't know…" He glanced at her, as if she might ridicule him for his words, "I'm not sure I could… Do that, anymore. I don't even want to think of it."

She crossed her arms at the edge of the table and gazed at the object, thinking of Anders, again. Finally she cleared her throat, "If you ever need to, Cullen, I will already be dead." She smiled at him, a soft fleeting thing, "Some...thing will just be desecrating my corpse. I like to think I've earned a peaceful rest."

Cullen reached forward to slide a fingertip over the side of the phylactery, an almost mechanical motion, as if it were one he'd performed many times before. Finally, he picked it up, nodding, "At least that. At least."


	4. Loghain

"Loghain," Hawke called, kicking his ankle gently with a foot. He was thrashing about on the makeshift pallet, another of his nightmares. "You're dreaming, Loghain, wake up." The man jerked awake and rolled off the edge of the cot, his sword coming free before he was up into a crouch and pointing the blade at her, "Woah, there, big guy. It's just me."

He stareed at her for as second before he exhaled, sheathing the sword and dropping back down to sit on the rumpled bedding. One hand ran through his dark hair, then over his face, scratching at the scruff that had delusions of beardhood, "You've brought the inquisitor?"

"He's coming. Gather there was some mage and templar issues to deal with first." She handed him her canteen.

The man opened it and drank greedily before handing it back with a soft, derisive snort, "Mage-templar war. You're the one who started that war, you should be the one dealing with it."

Hawke arched a brow at him, "And yet, here I am, babysitting the washed up old has-been who got King Caillen killed. You really wanna play the blame game?"

Loghain grunted, standing up and pacing the length of the small cave, "If you think so poorly of me, why are you helping?"

She dropped onto a stolen chair and leaned back, watching him with a sigh, "Because there's something wrong with a world in which a prince can give up everything to save the world and end up a broken drunk in the shitiest tavern in Kirkwall, that's why."

He stopped pacing and turned to look at her, his brows furrowing, "Alistair. Of course. He always was weak, couldn't stomach what needed to be done."

"Whatever," she had no intention of getting into another argument about Fereldan politics with the intractable old man, "The point being I've known a few grey wardens before you, and I've met more, after, and you all wear this cloud. This iron yoke of…" She waved a hand, searching for the right words, "Some horrible, ominous destiny the rest of us don't share. Even when you're joking, you're dripping despair into everyone else's pudding. It's sad. You're sad. You're a sad, washed up, former king killing old man. You're completely useless with the red lyrium problem, but you have this gift of making me feel guilty for breathing the air that you're so desperately gasping for."

Loghain stared at her, not saying anything for long enough that she shrugged, "And maybe I sorta accidentally freed Corypheus."

"You told me you killed him."

"And I did!" Hawke shrugged again, shifting uncomfortably, "Okay, look, I admit, I was little drunk that weekend, I don't remember much, but it's not like I hit him in the head with a vase and called it good, or anything."

He arched an expressive brow at her, his contempt for her and all her ancestors and everything she stood for dripping from every word, "You try the vase thing a lot?"

"Only the once." Hawke tilted her head, giving the old man a sudden, brilliant, charming grin.

"Your jokes do you no credit."

"And your brooding just isn't up to the levels of sexy I demand. We're just going to have to come to terms with our mutual disappointment."

Loghain huffed a short laugh and turned away from her, "Sex appeal isn't part of my duties."

"It wasn't part of Alistair's either, he managed." She grinned at him triumphantly when he rounded on her again. Only barely biting back the urge to yell a childish but satisfying 'Ha!'

"I know, now, how such a small slip of a girl managed to start a war. They rebelled to get away from you."

"I'm going to wait outside with the dragon. He's far better company!"

"I hope you get eaten!"

"Age before beauty, old man!"

"Fine!"

"Good!"


	5. Traveling

"Oooooh, you got told," Hawke murmured quietly at Bull's side, watching Vivienne riding the horse several lengths ahead with a regal air.

Bull cleared his threat and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle of the massive bay shire gelding someone had found that could hold his weight, however put upon it looked doing it, "I did mention I was a relative teddy bear."

"Tiny's just being humble," Varric put in from her other side, "Around the iron lady, he's one of those hairy mongrel yappers ladies keep around as accessories."

"Hairy mongrel yappers get all the good table scraps," the Qunari replied, grinning.

"You may refer to me as Your Royal Highness, Empress Hawke, Supreme Leader of all Things and Best Looking Mage in Thedas."

"Bit of a mouthful," Iron Bull said.

"And Sparkler would probably get all pouty," Varric nodded.

"That's what the pet names are for, Sugar Bear," Hawke lidded her eyes flirtatiously at the Qunari who laughed, causing Vivienne to look back at them. All three ducked their heads and stared at their respective horses. Hawke scratched her temple. Varric took to brushing some dust off his pants. Iron Bull was simply fascinated by the horn of his saddle.

Eventually the lady mage looked away again, but Iron Bull lowered his voice, anyway, "Guess that makes you Cinnamon."

Hawke grinned, "Well, it's short for the whole other thing, of course."

"Ugh. Get a room, you two," Sera appeared on Bull's other side, one leg wrapped around the horn of her saddle to keep her on top while she aimed her bow at a ram that could be spotted in the distance.

"Sera's the jealous sort," Bull explained.

"There's plenty of you to go around," Hawke countered.

"I didn't say she was jealous of me."

"Well yeah, cause… phwoar. Bit with the hand waving, but could play the ditties like drums. Look here..." the elf said, loosing an arrow before nocking another and releasing it, too. The ram reared at the first arrow, then tumbled down to one side at the second, "'At's dinner, innit?" She finally looked at them. Well. Leered. At Hawke, not the two men, "Bit o' stew for your ripe peaches, eh, Champ?"

Hawke nodded, smiling. She didn't understand the large majority of that, "I do love a good stew."

"Pwuh… I bet you do. Bet you do…"

"Down girl," Bull said, eying the elf, "Varric's the jealous sort, too."

"Me? Oh no. Broody, though…" He stared at Sara for a long minute, "Yeah, let's never put you and Broody in the same room."

"If you four are quite done making a mockery of the Inquisition, we're setting up camp, now," Vivienne was looking back at them again.

Silence descended on Hawke's group for a long minute before Bull threw himself in front of that particular arrow, "Can I help you with your horse, ma'am? I believe we'll be having a wonderful ram stew for dinner."


	6. Vivienne

"I am given to understand that you had a hand in the destruction of the Kirkwall Circle, after the apostate -- a friend of yours, yes? -- murdered the grand cleric and hundreds of innocent people." Vivienne was looking at her, like one might examine a particularly venomous dead insect. Or a dragon everyone kept telling her was tame.

Hawke stifled the sigh she could feel coming on and looked down at the firepit they were standing around. Everyone else had gone silent, the sort of awkward shifting of feet when one sensed an oncoming altercation and was considering whether to try and stop it, or get out of the way. She tilted her head to one side, waiting.

"Tell me, darling, exactly what sort of madness lead to that, hmm?" The taller woman lifted her chin slightly. It was impossible to determine if she actually wanted to know the answer, or just wanted to share her opinion on it in a slightly less obvious way than making a statement.

Hawke nodded a little and looked up, finally, giving Vivienne a chagrinned smile, "Oh, you know… Spite mostly."

One imperial eyebrow rose over the delicate bone structure of the First Enchanter's face. It was telling, that brow. "Spite," she repeated, as if Hawke had told her garden gnomes had done it.

Hawke nodded again, "There was this templar, see. Now, I'm not saying I was in love, but I did rub the top of my head against his chest, once." Dorian made a scandalized gasp and put his hand over his mouth in mock shock. Hawke waved a hand at him, her own brows raising, "I'm sayin!" Vivienne was looking more and more not amused. Hawke never did know when to stop, "But when he found out I was mage," she paused for emphasis, "He smote me. Is smote a word?"

"I do believe smote is a word," Varric inserted in the long practiced way of a good friend.

"Smote me," Hawke continued, barely a pause between her words and the dwarves, "Twice," Hawke smiled brilliantly, "A woman scorned, you know."

"Are you seriously suggesting you helped start a war you could not possibly win because you couldn't get a date?"

"No," Hawke said, her smile going soft and sad, "But it's as good a story as any other you'd want to hear. The truth just isn't simple enough to fit your narrative." She turned to walk away but the other woman was not done, yet.

"You find the wholesale slaughter of innocents funny, do you?"

"Well, it's not the best joke I ever heard," Hawke turned back, tilting her head, "But it's right up there with the harrowing."

"My dear, if the harrowing was your biggest complaint, I dare say we'd have all been better off if you had failed."

"Ouch," Hawke said but only smiled, "Tell me, Madame de Fer, when you were harrowed, did you talk to them? The demon?"

"One does not hold afternoon tea with demons," Vivienne replied, icy.

Hawke nodded. The First Enchanter didn't know, couldn't know. If Hawke had been raised in the circle, it's likely she wouldn't know, either. They taught the novices not to speak with demons before they ever even got around to reading, writing, or arithmetic. "No. Of course not." She nodded once more and turned to leave again. This time the Iron Lady let her go.

She didn't notice Solas watching her go, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together, as if at a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit into the spot it was assigned.


	7. Solas

"Did you?"

Hawke looked up from where she had been watching the endless sands of the Western Reach shift subtly in the wind. The elf, Solas, was standing at her side, having appeared silent on bare feet. He wasn't looking at her, but out into the sands, as well.

"Start a war to spite a man? No," she said, smiling, "I did it to redecorate the Gallows. Put up a new statue, tear down some walls, you know…"

"I've seen your actions in Kirkwall," the elf said without explanation before he shook his head, "Did you talk to the spirit during your harrowing?"

She hummed softly, narrowing her eyes, "More like I let him talk to me." She turned to look at Solas directly, "Aren't you the local fade expert?"

The elf tilted his head to one side and clasped his hands behind his back, not acknowledging her gaze, "I know many things about the fade. More than is taught in your circle, certainly." He finally looked at her, an uncomfortably knowing smile on his lips, "You had a question?"

Hawke considered that, looking back out at the sand. Finally she took a breath, "You ever met a marketing demon?"

His brows raised as if she'd asked him an entirely unexpected question before he turned the conversation smoothly back to her, "Your harrowing spirit?" At her nod he continued, "I find myself curious what he told you."

She went still, watching him while he smiled at her mildly. She'd never told anyone what Fizzgig had said. She wasn't sure she'd be believed. And she feared what would happen if she was. What the chantry would do with, or more precisely, about that knowledge. But this was an apostate, an expert on the fade, and didn't seem inclined to share anything with the chantry.

Hawke swallowed and shifted closer to the man, her voice pitched low, "He… Somewhat indirectly…" Another pause, pressing her lips together, "Told me that they're on to the game. The harrowing doesn't mean anything. They will purposefully avoid possessing anyone just to ensure that they pass."

Solas lost his smile, looking at her strangely, "I see." He didn't say anything else about it, just looking away again, "To answer your question, no. I've never met a demon of marketing." He glanced at her briefly, "Because there's no such thing."

She just nodded sagely, as if he had confirmed something she already knew. The conversation lapsed into silence, and Hawke smiled at him, turning to leave before Varric walked up.

"Hey, Chuckles, his Inquisitorialness is looking for you."

Hawke turned, but the dwarf was talking to Solas. Her eyes got wide, "Did you… Did you just call him Chuckles?"

Varric looked up at her and backpedaled, "What? No!"

"You did! You called him chuckles! You gave away my nickname?!" Hawke gaped at the dwarf while Solas walked away.

Varric waved his hands, "No, no, of course not, it's just… I got a better name for you!"

"You broke the sacred pet name trust, Varric!" Hawke held a hand out at the dwarf and spun on her heel, stalking back into the camp while he trailed behind, "Forget it! I'm gonna go find that Warden, Blackwell…"

"Blackwall," Varric corrected.

"His royal beardiness of the Wardens. I bet his chest hair is just as impressive!" Varric gasped and put a hand to his chest as if she'd slapped him, "Oh, now you're sorry! Now you want exclusivity, now that I've caught you red handed sowing your wild pet names!" She looked around, "Warden Blackwall! Show us your chest!"

"Hawke! Don't do that, to me! What about Killer? You like Killer, right? Don't you wanna be Killer?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Varric really does give away Charming!Hawke's nickname.


	8. Onward to Adamant

"No, no. Blood magic and demon summoning always makes for a wonderful plan B," Hawke said, looking sidelong at Loghain.

He tightened his lips and refused to look at her, "Any means necessary," he said, his voice as tight as his face, controlled, but just barely.

"Magic is magic. Blood magic is a tool like any other," Solas put in, which was odd, since he seemed just as furious at the wardens as Hawke did.

She threw her arms wide, "It's all fun and games until someone loses a head." Hawke held up a hand before the elf could retort and shook her head, turning away to collect the weapon, dropped where the wardens had died next to their demons. She gave up after picking up one sword and tossed it back down before turning again to fix Loghain with a stare, "You know the problem with any means necessary, old man? All means eventually start to look necessary."

"Don't you have a war to start somewhere?!" Loghain rounded on Hawke, raising his voice.

"I would if the wardens weren't hogging all the demons!" She yelled right back at him.

"Enough!" the inquisitor roared at both of them before he strode over, hands fisted at his waist, his horns topping out at least a couple of feet taller than Hawke. She crossed her arms over her chest and Loghain make a disgusted noise.

The qunari just shook his head at the both of them like particularly stubborn children, "We need to get to Adamant. Stop the wardens before they can finish this…" The word 'mad' was implied but left unspoken in the pregnant pause, "Plan." He looked around at the rest of his companions and sighed, "We're going to need the army. Someone send a raven, have Cullen march immediately."

He strode away, his minions following into step behind him with the ease of long practice, leaving Hawke and Loghain standing together surrounded by warden corpses. Loghain shifted, glancing down at a sword that dropped near his boot. Hawke slid closer to stand at his side. They weren't friends, but they'd been the two of them for so long that the animosity was comforting.

"I never countenanced…" The old war horse waved a hand, indicating the demons.

"I know," Hawke said softly, looking up at him, "You got branded a traitor for not countenancing. You don't have to convince anyone here."

"And yet you continue to attack me."

"And yet you continue to defend them."

Loghain sighed heavily, turning to look back at the inquisitor still issuing orders to various scouts who rushed off to complete them, "I should have fought Kallian harder. Dealt with the archdemon myself. I'm too old for this war, young lady."

Hawke shook her head, "Don't start talking like that, old man. You're the highest ranking still sane warden in Orlais and Ferelden. Once the Inquisition knocks some heads together, they're going to need you. Someone has to clean up all the messes I keep leaving."

"No rest for the wicked?" The man graced her with a short, tight smile.

"More like no one ever really stops beating an old, dead war horse."


	9. The Fade

Adamant was burning. The shouts and clanging of combat, the screams of the dying, the roar of flames, they echoed off the bare stone walls of the fortress. The noise reverberated, multiplying, mingling, losing all sense of meaning until it was just chaos. A cacophony of sound and thunder that set bones to rattling and ears to ringing and bowels to quivering under the onslaught. It meant nothing, but it felt like doom.

Whatever that dragon was breathing at them, it wasn't fire. Hawke knew fire. She was comfortable with flames, with conflagrations, with infernos. This was something altogether different. It exploded in a red black crackle that made the world shear sideways and the lungs burn and the muscles writhe uncontrollably in pain.

She stumbled against a wall as the dragon made another pass, covering her head with her arms until the hot, rotten wind off it's wings buffeted past her before she kept sprinting. She chased the Inquisitor up staircases and through stone pillared corridors, Loghain behind her, urging her to move faster with shoves and shouts, Iron Bull in front, charging through enemies that didn't stay standing long enough for Hawke to even identify them.

The dead run came to a sudden and surprising stop as she turned a corner and slammed directly into Bull's back, the qunari grabbing her before she could fall over and hauling her back upright. He wasn't looking at her, though. She didn't bother looking at him. The Warden Commander was standing over Erimond.

Hawke straightened out and stepped forward slowly, catching her breath and following the inquisitor out onto the stone parapet. In a rush of wind and the smell of week old corpses, the dragon dropped out of the sky, directly on top of Clarel. The beast sized her in it's massive jaws and took off again before anyone could react.

Bull grabbed her arm again and pulled her back behind him as they turned, following the path of the dragon where it landed on the tower behind them and proceeded to shake the Warden Commander like a dog with a rat before dropping her and slithering down the wall. Hawke glanced behind her. The parapet ended in a sheer drop where the wall had crumbled. No retreat.

She looked back in time to see the dragon stalk towards Clarel, it's chosen victim. She was saying something, but the words couldn't be made out over the roar of wind this high, and the shouts of men still fighting below. A flash of light and the dragon reared up, screeching in pain and rage. She dove to one side a bare blink before the great beast fumbled it's take off and crashed down into the stone, sliding over the edge to vanish into the smoke below.

She had only a second to feel relief before the parapet cracked, rumbled, then ground together. The edge crumbled, dropping out from under the feet of the Inquisitor just as he leapt forward. The whole wall tilted, shifting, then broke up like ice drifts floating over a bottomless cold sea.

They ran. Not fast enough. The stone under her vanished and Hawke tumbled out into the grey black emptiness. Time stretched. She watched the inquisitor fall ahead of her, turning, his hand glowing the sickly green of the anchor. A strong hand caught her wrist and she spun, looking up to see Iron Bull, determined, even now, to keep the promise he had made her first day at Skyhold. It was enough to make her eyes well up in tears and a vaguely hysterical giggle bubble up from her throat.

Vertigo swept through her and direction lost all meaning at the black smoke gave way to sickly green skies. She and the Bull tumbled, spinning, down, or maybe up, sideways? Soon, it all ended, Hawke was caught up short, suddenly dangling from Bull's outstretched arm, her legs swinging. She gasped, going against all her better judgement to look down.

The ground was there, inches below her. She let her grip slip just enough to drop down to her feet, still holding to Bull's hand. She looked up. He was dangling above her, legs swinging freely under the grey green air. It only lasted a second before gravity reasserted itself and the massive qunari dropped, barely missing crushing her with his weight.

Silence. A groan from somewhere. Hawke picked herself up and pulled Bull up to his feet after her, looking around. Loghain, the Inquisitor. Dorian was off to one side, dragging himself up out of the inky fetid water that gathered in puddles around her feet. Solas was standing just past him, looking around.

"Are we dead?" Loghain asked, his brows furrowing.

"I don't feel dead," Bull replied, equal confusion in his voice.

Dorian looked at Hawke, the same sort of horrified realization on his face that she imagined was painted on hers, "No," she said softly, exhaling, "We're in the fade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me thanking everyone for the Kudos and lovely comments. Please let me know what you think!


	10. The Abyss

The Inquisitor swore they were spiders. Iron Bull refused to say what he saw, though he did mention spiders would be an improvement. Hawke just saw her mother. Her mother's head on some other women's stitched together body. They shambled forward on jerky, unsteady legs and stared with dead eyes and smiled with blood-covered teeth and called for her. _Marian? Marian! Is Carver with you? This is your fault! How could you let her run off like that?! Oh, my sweet baby girl, my Bethany..._

Hawke looked away, unable to bring herself to see anymore. Nightmare was dead, and the Inquisitor was perfectly capable of crushing the few remaining spiders. Everyone else, at least, seemed to see things they didn't mind killing over and over and… She coughed and held her lips closed with the tips of her fingers. She had no plans to retch up an empty stomach in the fade.

She looked up at the rift, instead, standing at the top of a staircase, surrounded by a stone archway. That seemed overly convenient to Hawke, but she wasn't about to argue with the rift expert. It stuck out from land, hung suspended by nothing over a sheer drop to… sky. There was nothing at all underneath that archway. The floating island ended there, and the green fog of pure fade took over.

_The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly._

Hawke sighed softly to herself. Batty old dragon woman never did tell her anything useful. The rift shifted, shrunk a little before settling again. She looked back, pointedly not watching the last of her mothers clutch at her chest and stumble to her knees to die. Again. "It's shifting. We should go before we lose it."

The Inquisitor wiped his blade, streaked black with whatever the creatures had for blood, off on the corpse of her mother and return it to his scabbard. Hawke looked at Iron Bull, instead. He was nothing at all like the Arishok. He lacked the gravitas, the natural authority, the deep velvet purr of Arishok's voice. With all his difference, though, he was a qunari to the bone, settled deep in the world, a connection to some greater whole they all shared. It was subtle, hidden under his laugh, his easy smile, his wicked humor, but she could see it, and she drew comfort from it.

She fell into step next to them as they hurried towards the stairs, only to stumble backwards as the massive nightmare beast roared back to life, climbing up over the edge of the island the divine's copy cat had pushed it over. Loghain grabbed for his sword and pulled his shield off his back. Hawke looked at the rift. It was smaller. Definately smaller. They had to go now, or they weren't going at all.

_It is only when your choices are as the karasten -- to accept and succeed, or deny and die -- that you yield to the Qun. You surrender, and overcome._

Hawke pulled her staff over her shoulder, "Go! I got this!"

"What?" Loghain looked back at her, then the rift. His eyes went wide and he shook his head, "No! The wardens did this! A warden should…"

"Lead what's left of them," Hawke interrupted before turning to the inquisitor, "I've got this. I can do this. Go on!"

Iron Bull grabbed her arm, "Hawke, what are you doing?"

_Do not hesitate to leap._

"Seeking security in the inevitability of my own death," she murmured, half to herself.

"We have an accord, Hawke. I made a promise." Bull was reaching over his shoulder for his sword when she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Then you would deny me my duty to the Arishok."

"The Qun," Bull said softly, furrowing one brow. No one had a duty to the Arishok, only the Qun.

Hawke smiled, "Same difference. Go."

"Hawke," the Inquisitor said, his voice strong, through his eyes were troubled. Bull released his sword, frowning.

"Tell Fenris…" She hesitated for only a second, everything she wanted to say piling up in the back of her throat before continuing, "Tell him his dragon plans to fly."

She didn't see them turn away, facing the beast as she was. She walked towards it slowly, her staff in one hand, the other stretched forward, throwing spells, one after another, after the next. Fire and ice and lightning. Driving the thing away from the archway and the rift.

It laughed at her, and she laughed back before it climbed up the last stretch of island to stand on solid ground and launched itself at her. She spun her staff and crouched, driving the head of the weapon into the ground and letting the beast's own weight force the blade she still kept attached to the bottom into it's own belly.

_Do not hesitate to leap._

Hawke didn't hesitate. She dropped, rolling away from the the thrashing legs, the great teeth that were tearing into her staff. She got back to her feet already sprinting. Solas was the last through the rift, looking back at her for only a blink before he turned away, the rift closing behind him. Hawke didn't even slow down. She picked up speed, hurtling towards the archway and up the steps.

She never looked back, though she could hear the beast crashing after her, knocking into pillars, trying to turn it's massive body on the tiny platform, gigantic legs hit the ground around her like meteor impacts. The ground shook with every strike, and the beast screeched it's anger.

Ten feet, five feet. The beast finally got itself turned and crouched to leap again. Hawke landed one last foot on the platform, throwing herself through the archway, arms spread wide as she leapt, swan diving out into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several references in here to part one of the series. Specifically here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3440570/chapters/7837625 That won't make a whole lot of sense without the preceeding chapters detailing her night spent with the Qunari, however, so really... If you're that concerned, read the whole thing.


	11. Cullen

Cullen was slumped in the chair behind his desk when Cassandra found him. The woman stopped in the doorway and looked around. Papers and ink littered the floor in drifts where the man had shoved them off the top of the desk. There was a suspiciously fresh hole in one of the wooden walls, and the usual gaggle of guardsman was absent. The now entirely bare desk held only one thing, a phylactery, it's blood dark now, almost black.

The former templar just watched her, his eyes weary, but hard, daring the seeker to say something about the condition of his office. Instead, she just sighed softly and picked her way through the papers to drop into a chair on the other side of the desk.

Both people stared at the vial of blood, now, rather than each other. A minute passed before the seeker shifted in her seat, "I had assumed your recent behavior was the withdrawal. I see now I was wrong."

Cullen made a noncommittal grunt and scratched at the stubble that now covered his cheeks and neck, overgrown and unkempt.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you continue to bathe and issue commands." The commander looked up at her, his brows drawn down, insulted that she might even think that. She waved a hand and shifted again, uncomfortable, "I… Apologize, commander. Of course you would never neglect your duties. I am just…" She paused, her lips twisting as if she had to drag the words kicking and screaming up her throat, "I did not know you were close with the champion."

He looked back down at the vial, the expression on his face fading. When he still said nothing the Seeker leaned forward a little, "I will not force you to speak of her, but I will listen if--"

"This is just like her," he said suddenly, interrupting the seeker. She leaned back in the chair again and raised her brows at him. He continued when he noticed her expression, "Throwing herself into things, without thinking. Reckless. Any cause, any fight, she'd wade into it, no matter how pointless, how small. How lost…" His face crumpled in on itself and he took a shuddering breath, "Blind panic, random direction, she said. But she wanted to change the world."

Cullen looked up at Cassandra, almost pleading, as if words alone were just not enough to convey meaning anymore, "She burned with it," he thumped a fist against his chest several times, "This… passion to save people, everyone, the world. Until the world broke her. Until I…" He trailed off. A moment passed in silence before he leaned forward, reaching over the desk with one tentative hand to run a single, gentle fingertip over the glass vial, caressing.

A second more before his voice returned, still rubbing at the phylactery compulsively, "She was never the same after the tower. Harder, sad. So… exhausted and…" He tilted his head, eyes flickering from the seeker to the vial of blood and back, "We tried to put that fire out. The chantry, the order, Kirkwall, me…"

Cassandra leaned forward, gazing at the black blood, the commander still stroking it unconsciously, "You must not blame yourself for--"

"If not me, who, Cassandra?" He furrowed his brows and gave the seeker a hard smile, "I was second in command, in Kirkwall. I knew there were… Abuses. I should have done something, I should have tried harder--"

"Knight Commander Meredith--"

"Was driven insane! She was in no condition to be making decisions. And I knew! I knew there was something wrong! But I let my anger, my fear stop me from--"

"Cullen--"

"Doing what needed to be done! From seeing the truth of it! From realizing that I held this precious life, this brilliant and beautiful woman, in my hands and I was crushing her!"

"Commander!" Cassandra reached over the table, grabbing his hand in a vice grip.

Cullen looked down at his hand, realizing suddenly that he'd picked the vial up and was squeezing the delicate glass in a white knuckled fist. He dropped the phylactery and jerked his hand back as if burned. Cassandra just leaned back in her chair again, calm, as if nothing had happened.

Minutes passed, Cullen rubbing his hand as if to work out a cramp and Cassandra gazing out the window behind him at the blue skies beyond. Finally, the seeker spoke, "She did."

Cullen looked up at her and she shrugged, waving a hand, "She did save the world, in the end. Or, at least the Inquisition, and I believe that amounts to the same thing."

The commander just stared at her for a second before looking back down at the blood, "I hope she knows that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a name for Danarius' house. Suggestions?


	12. Today

Hawke woke choking, her lungs screaming for air while black smudges danced at the edge of her vision. She rolled onto her side, gasping and coughing before the first of the retching started and she pushed herself to hands and knees, throwing up orange yellow bile from her otherwise empty stomach. She spit a couple of times, and slid down to one hip, panting, one hand going to her throat, rubbing at the unmarked flesh.

"Good morning, Kitten." Hawke jerked around and lifted a hand defensively. She didn't recognize the voice, or the beast using it, but the words…

Fizzgig, it turns out, was not a handsome Fereldan nobleman. He had the same basic shape of a man, though he stood an easy nine feet tall, and the great spiraled horns that swept back from his temples into wickedly sharp points added another couple of feet on top of that. His face was vaguely feline, sleek with angled eyes, and a mouth full of fangs. He had four arms, the bottom set fairly normal, if ending in sharp little claws, but the top set… They were huge, fat with corded muscle over the shoulders extending from the barrel chest and massive hands, the wrists started just under his small hips, but the fingers stretched past his knees, and the razor-edged, dagger sized claws could have brushed the ground if he stretched. Long, white hair grew from the inky, blue-black skin, flowing down over his back and covering just enough at his crotch to hide whatever else was there. He stood on long, lean-muscled, digitigrade legs, ending in three-taloned toes.

She stared. He smiled around those teeth. Hawke bolted, scrambling to her feet and turning before she stumbled to a stop, looking around. Black. Pure, unbroken black all around her. No visible light source, no walls, she couldn't even make out the ground though she was certainly standing on something. She spun around again, searching for something, anything that might provide an escape or someplace to hide, or even just prove this wasn't the void.

Fizzgig tsked softly and stalked closer, the talons clicking against an unseen floor, "Ahhh, kitten, one little lover's tiff and you're ready to throw away everything we had?"

Hawke exhaled hard, looking up at the demon in disbelief, "Tiff?"

The demon reached out with one massive hand the great claws waving inches from her head, neck and shoulders. She flinched away and he dropped the arm. She could swear he was pouting, "Don't be mad, baby doll. It's just been so long since I've seen you. You don't write, you never visit me anymore…" He took another step closer, "I waited for you." Those great clawed fingers tapped at her ankles, sliding up the back of her legs, "I was so hungry."

She jerked, stumbling backward and tipping over to land on her rear. She kicked at him, scrambling away before he caught her by a leg and dragged her back towards him, picking her up with ease and dangling her, upside down, by one hand. She screamed, kicking as the fingers the gripped her ankle. When she reached for the fade, and couldn't find it, her anger switched to panic, blinding, all-consuming terror.

Fizzgig manhandled her easily, sliding down to sit on his feet and hips, the legs folding up like a cats while he turned her right side up. He gathered the mage to his massive chest where he could trap her with a cage of giant arms while the more normal ones pet over her in what might have been meant to be a soothing manner.

Hawke shrieked. She howled under her voice broke, and then she just kept pushing air past vocal chords that couldn't seem to produce much past a strained whisper.

And the whole time, the demon cooed at her, inside her head.

_Poor thing. Poor sweet little thing. Got lost in the darkness. Lost and alone with the nightmares._


	13. His, Now

Minutes. Hours. Maybe days. Time didn't seem to exist in the blackness. She'd stopped screaming some bit ago. She stopped pulling away some little bit after that, and now she laid there, limp in the demon's lap, staring out into the endless dark. Fizzgig stopped petting her when she stopped struggling, but then he'd started something even worse. He was purring. The demon was purring at her. His chest vibrated against her back, the sound felt more than heard. At least it filled the silence. The silence might make her start screaming again.

"Please let me go," Hawke said, her voice scratchy and broken.

The demon paused in his purring, going still for a second before he rumbled back, thankfully with a voice this time, not inside her head, "Can't have you running off, Hawke, baby. You'll get yourself into trouble."

"Where am I gonna go?" She waved a hand at the black.

Fizzgig looked past her, his eyes moving as if he could see things she couldn't. Finally, the large set of arms shifted, loosening though the long fingers and massive claws stayed in contact, "I can't protect you in the dark, if you run away, kitten."

Hawke leaned forward and slid out of his lap, crawling away a couple of feet before she turned to face him. He kept a large hand on her ankle. She stared at him, "Who's going to protect me from you, Fizzgig?"

He just smiled at her around the fangs and reached forward, sharp claws reaching forward to brush at her hair, amazingly gentle for their size and probable use, "One little strangulation and you get so cranky." Claw tips slid down the side of her neck and caught at the fabric of her robes, pulling bits of thread loose, "You made such sweet noises before that though. I can be gentle," he frowned, his bottom lip poking out, as if not killing her were a terrible imposition he was willing to endure for her benefit, "Romance and love making is always a big crowd pleaser for the ladies."

"There's no such thing as a marketing demon."

That got his attention. He looked up from where his eyes had been lingering around her hips and raised his brows before the long, slow smile he had first shown her during her harrowing crept back across his features, "No," he said simply, his voice changing. The tone, the salesman tone trying to sell her a broken down old wagon dropped, and he sounded like the voice that had been in her head.

"So what are you? Really?"

Fizzgig tilted her head at her, the large horns making the motion look exaggerated, "Not a marketing demon," he answered before losing interest in the conversation, his eyes sliding back down her torso towards what he really wanted.

Hawke sighed, but let it go. It didn't really matter what sort of demon he was, in the end. He's stopped putting on airs, though. Or at least, was putting on less annoying airs. She looked around, "Where am I?"

The demon hummed as if considering how to answer that while he shifted, sliding closer to her, close enough that one of the small arms could slither up her leg under her robe, scratching at her calf, "Nowhere," he finally replied, "Everywhere." He looked up at her face again, smiling, "Can't you feel it?"

Hawke pulled away, shuffling back away from him on her hips and hands, "What does that mean? Feel what?"

Fizzgig didn't try to stop her, but did follow, crawling closer, the large arm that wasn't wrapped around her ankle flattening against the floor (Shale, now the she could see it. Matte black shale rock), both smaller arms reaching for her, slipping under the hem of her robe to brush against the flesh of her thighs. He just kept smiling at her, "You're still falling."

Before Hawke could react to that, he yanked hard on her ankle, pulling her under his bulk. He shoved her down with one giant hand against her face, the long fingers wrapped around her head, the smaller hands pushing her robes up and tearing at her smallclothes. She struggled, kicking at him while her hands closed around the long wrist holding her head down. The demon made hushing noises, ignoring her struggles. His hands working between them before she felt him push into her with a soft groan. He stilled, the wide head of his shaft breaching her, but he made no move to thrust, simply settling down against her chest, most of his weight on the knuckles of the giant hand wrapped around her head.

"Enough questions," he said softly, wrapping the small set of arms around her waist, "You're mine, now, and I will have all of you."


	14. Family

Hawke scratched, and bit, and twisted her hips. Nothing she did would make the hand let go of her head. In frustration, she beat her hands against the shale when something sharp dug into her wrist. Her dagger. Before the thought was even fully formed, almost before she recognized it, she was moving. Yanking the dagger out of the sheath she drove it into the shoulder of the massive arm holding her down. It wasn't a fatal wound, but it did get her head free.

She pulled it out and drove it in again, into the upper right of the demon's chest. He roared at her, pulling back as she struck again, right into his neck. She tried to pull it out, but it was too slick with black blood and the hilt slipped from her grip. She gave it up and reared back, kicking with both legs, shoving herself out from under him before she rolled and started running, straight out into the black.

Even being blind didn't slow her down. She'd nothing left to lose. She leaned into the darkness and pumped her legs as fast as they would go. There was no sense of motion, no wind in her hair, nothing to see flashing past, if not for the stitch forming under the ribs on her left side, she'd question if she was even moving.

A low, soft sound echoed in the black, rushing past her. Laughing. Fizzgig was laughing at her, rather than pursuing her. He knew something she didn't. Or wanted her to think he did. It occurred to Hawke that if she looked behind her, she'd be exactly where she started, a couple of feet from the demon. She didn't look back. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to see it coming, whatever else the beast had planned. Here one second, gone the next. That's how she wanted to die, not mewling like a terrified child and watching it stalk closer.

Something caught her ankle and she pitched forward, her breath catching, her arms coming forward before she ran headlong into a wall. It ceased all forward momentum and she bounced, falling backward. Her head swam, her vision blurry as she stared up at the blue sky.

Blue sky.

Hawke blinked, rubbing at her eyes before she winced as her hand caught a long gash on her forehead, just now starting to bleed. She blinked again, squinting into the sunshine as she turned her head. Pale stone. Feet. Wooden stalls and the corner of a ramshackle building. The dust kicked up from the shuffling of the sparse crowd made her cough. She tried to lift her head, tried to sit up, but the movement only made the pain in her head flare up and the world swim lazily back and forth.

Instead, she rolled her head gingerly to the other side. Stairs. More feet. Several towers looming over the… Chantry. Those towers belonged to the chantry. She was in Kirkwall. Except she remembered, quite clearly, those towers blowing outward and then crumbling. She stared at them, blinked, and they were gone, jagged cuts in the stone where they had fallen. She blinked again they were back. They kept fading in and out as if they weren't sure themselves whether they should be there.

Hawke groaned and looked away, the sight was making her nauseous. Or maybe that was the head wound.

"Idiot," a man accused her. Close by, familiar. She twisted, looking down towards the wall she had run into. He was sitting at her feet, leaning against the stone, exactly as he had looked seconds before she'd driven a dagger into his heart. His skin deathly white, black veins spider-webbing over his clammy flesh. His eyes pale, the color bled out like a painting left in the sun. He was staring at her as if he simply could not believe what sort of fool she was.

"Carver?"


	15. Empty Throne

"Fancy meeting you here, sister." Her brother looked around, his hands going to his knees as he pulled them up to his chest, "Been quiet, since Bethany went to the void."

Hawke blinked at the apparition, struggling towards a sitting position and ignoring the effect that had on her abused head, "Wait, what?"

Carver just looked at her, tilting his head, "She always was the one to make peace, first." He gave her a sickly smile, "Mother hasn't even accepted that she's dead, yet. She's still hanging out in the old hovel, waiting for you to bring us home from the Deep Roads. She'll probably be waiting a while for that, huh, sis?"

She put a hand to her temple and groaned, trying to catch up with what he was saying, "Bethany went to the void?"

"Does that bother you?" He seemed honestly curious before he just shrugged, "Guess it bothered me, too. At the time." He looked around again, "Beginning to think she had the right of it, all along."

Hawke stared hard at her dead brother, looking for some clue, some misplaced detail that would prove he wasn't really here. She couldn't find anything. "I don't understand," she said softly, sliding carefully around to lean against the wall next to him, "Are you really Carver? Why are you here?"

The ghost snorted at her, "No, sister. I'm a fade spirit pretending to be Carver because he was obviously the most interesting dead person to be." He shook his head, and she could practically hear him accusing her of idiocy again, in his head, "And where else would I go?" He spread a hand to indicate the Lowtown market they were sitting in. Or, at least, the vaguely shifting, somewhat off representation of the lowtown market.

She swallowed, pressing her lips together, almost afraid to say it, lest the dead man take offence, "To the maker?"

He didn't seem offended. Instead, he laughed at her, letting his head drop back to rest against the wall, "Brilliant idea, sister. Bright white, happy, peaceful eternity. Of course that's what we'd come up to explain away this…" He lifted his head to look around, his eyes narrowing, "This… forever." He shook his head, offering her another sad smile, "You don't get it, sis. If there ever really was a Maker, he's long gone. There is no golden city, there is no peace waiting for us. There's just this." He pat the dusty stone next to his hip as if it were old friend, "And when you get tired of this, nothing. The void. Poof, gone forever." He fingers wiggled as he waved one hand, "Like Bethany."

Hawke shook her head, denying, "The black city is…"

"Exactly," he interrupted, "The black city." He shook his head, "It's black, sister, not golden. I've been there. It's empty. Crumbling ruins that not even the demons care to linger in. Long dead. Just like the rest of us."

She narrowed her eyes, watching the man (Her brother? A spirit? A demon?) for a long second while he watched the people flow past, ignoring them exactly like real Kirkwallers would ignore two injured people slumped against walls in lowtown, "Why are you trying to trick me?" she accused, suddenly.

Carver raised his brows, looking at her, almost surprised before he just shook his head, "Whatever. Not like you ever put stock in anything I said while alive, no reason to start now."

"Mages have been coming to the fade for a long time. If what you were saying is true, if the dead just hang out, if you were really Carver… We'd know."

Carver just nodded at that, another sad smile, "The living can't see us. Well..." A considering pause, "They see us. They just don't _see_ us. They think we're wisps or spirits or something. They see _through_ us." He watched her as her mouth worked soundlessly, then reached over to squeeze her hand, "For what it's worth, sister. I'm sorry." He shrugged, "And a little pissed off, honestly. If any us would make it to natural causes, I figured it'd be you. But no. Had to go and do something stupid."

The ghost stiffened before she could respond, his head jerking around to peer suspiciously at the market, "No time to talk. A demon's coming." He turned on her, his voice low and his pale colorless eyes intent, "Listen. They won't bother you if they think you don't know. Pretend you're alive, living in Kirkwall. Don't look at them, don't notice them. Whatever happens. If they figure out you're awake…" He shook his head, "Just run, okay? Run and keep moving. If you can't pretend to be stupid, don't let them catch you."

Carver lurched to his feet, "Remember, sister. I'll find you later." With that he was gone. Vanished like so much mist. Hawke struggled up the wall, holding onto it as if it were the only thing keeping her from being swept away. She scanned the thin crowd, panic rising in her throat.

"Carver? Carver!"


	16. Belle of the Ball

"Did you notice Lady Bellamy's dress?" Leliana appeared, silently as always, next to Iron Bull and he graced her with one of his special red-head smiles.

"If you mean did I notice the new seam where it had been taken out…" The spymaster grinned up at the qunari, who nodded slightly, "Pity Lord Bellamy appears to prefer his valet to his wife."

Leliana's laughter was like the ringing of fine crystal, musical, sweet, with just a hint of sharp edges below the surface, "If you tire of mercenary life, Bull, you must come work for me."

"Going unnoticed," the Iron Bull said softly. twitching a hand outward and shifting his weight, "Not really my thing. You need a distraction, though..."

"If I need a distraction, I will bring Sera," the spymaster inserted, nodding her head towards the side of the ballroom where the lithe, skinny little elven girl was scandalizing an entire group of young nobles, and she wasn't even drunk yet, or standing on the tables, or yelling.

"You need a violent distraction," the qunari amended, gaining him another crystalline chuckle. Her eyes cut past Bull to alight on Dorian, though she was far too diplomatic to actually say anything, and just moved on, inserting herself easily into the group of noble ladies, and several lords, keeping commander Cullen cornered.

The commander, for as much as he loathed the game, and by the looks of it, nobles in general, was an accomplished actor. His back was straight, his hands still, his voice soft and his replies to the noble's constant nattering polite. Bull wasn't fooled, however. He could see the hint of dark skin under his eyes, the tightness around his lips, the spot just under his ear where he'd nicked himself shaving, the way one hand would brush his breast pocket whenever he did deign to move. Bull missed Hawke, too, but the commander... The commander felt guilt that was only partially related to her death.

"Didn't Varric mention that Cullen put Hawke in the circle?" Bull turned back to the Vint mage he'd been standing next to for the past hour.

"You could understand him past all the crying?" That sort of snappishness was out of character for Dorian, and judging by the slight wince, he knew it too, but Bull didn't call him on it. Instead he looked down at the dance floor where the Inquisitor could be easily picked out, dancing with Josephine.

That was the real problem. Dorian wasn't callous, he was heartbroken. And thus why Bull was standing here at his side. A giant bulwark protecting the Vint from having to interact with nobles they were under strict orders to not piss off. Orders directly from Madam de Fer, who Bull had no intention of letting down. She was scary, that one. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she was trained by the Tamassran in how to squash resistance.

Bull took a breathe, twisting his lips. He was probably going to regret this, but when had that ever stopped him? "Pretty common, among you human types, to uh… Experiment. Before settling down."

The mage shot him a withering glance, "I don't know what you think you know, Iron Bull, but it was my decision to keep it casual."

"Of course," the qunari said, his voice entirely and carefully neutral. That was entirely too predictable about Dorian, offering to keep things casual in a desperate bid to show someone he couldn't be hurt. Bull knew it, Leliana knew it. It was a good bet the Inquisitor knew that before they'd slept together. Not that Bull planned to mention that. The stricken look on the mage's face was pretty clear -- Dorian knew that, too.


	17. Arishok

The buildings, or at least most of them, seemed solid. The walls, the streets, even the shutters were well behaved memories, attached, still, a fair if pale impression of reality. It was the things that changed that kept changing. The wares for sale in the market, the clothing of the people around her, the bits of plant life that had managed to squeeze in at the edges of the street or between the cracks. They shifted and swam, blending one into another, almost before they could be identified.

It left Hawke dizzy and a little sick and she had to close her eyes, leaning into a wall, waiting for the moment to pass. She was used to the fade being strange, furniture in nonsensical places, shelves of books that never had a word in them. The fade had been a dreamscape, strange and surreal, but it had never been quite so… melty, before. All the trappings were in the right places, or at least places that made sense, they just kept moving, blurring one into another until everything but the solid structures left trails, afterimages like a torch waved in the darkness.

She wandered the streets of Kirkwall's memory blindly, stumbling from one mostly solid wall to the next, down stairs and past alleys with little notice, her eyes kept firmly to the street under her boots. She stopped to retch frequently, not even bile coming up after a while, just the painful, wracking dry heaves that left her shuddering. Hawke had to keep moving, though. She could feel them, behind her, slithering along in her wake. The great claws would catch the ends of her hair and skitter over her robes as they followed. The foul breath and forked tongues would snake around her throat as she heaved against buildings, bent over, her eyes squeezed shut.

She'd made the mistake of looking one in the eye. She'd caught their attention, and now they stalked her down the streets, taunting, daring her to acknowledge their presence as if this were a game they were playing.

It seemed hours passed as they harried her from one part of town to another before they grew bored of her continued refusal to see them and slunk away after other prey. She stopped moving as the last slipped by her and vanished into a wall. Hawke rested her forehead against the cool, rough stone of a wall and breathed deeply. Her fingertips pressed into the textured surface, tracing cracks carefully, out to each side of her. The very fact of their existence and continuity soothed her roiling stomach and anxious, rabbiting heartbeat.

At least able to stand up straight and open her eyes without wanting to get sick again, Hawke turned around slowly. She'd ended up in the docks, across the street and down a ways from the gate to the old Qunari compound. A red-stained and leather wearing Karashok stood guard in the normal places, arms folded over his chest, watching the passersby with a glower. His clothes didn't shift, perhaps because he never wore anything but what he was wearing that second. Not even the patterns of his vitaar moved, laid down in purposeful, deliberate, and oh-so-carefully controlled lines. Qunari were as solid as buildings. The sight made her want to weep.

Before she could change her mind, Hawke was moving, stepping quickly out into the street and beelining for the gate. She slowed as she got closer, watching the qunari man still standing guard with trepidation. The gate was open, but would he let her through? Her eyes flickered to it, then back to the karashok as she stopped moving a couple of large steps away. His eyes locked on hers for a long moment, his brows furrowing and his eyes narrowing, as if he were trying to deduce something important from the lines of her face.

"You may pass," the man finally says before looking away from her. She was dismissed just that easily. She didn't argue. Rather, she darted into the gate and hurried up the stairs before coming to a stop at the corner, one hand reaching out to grip the wall.

There he was. As solid as the walls, as the qunari at the gate. Not a hair out of place, ruling his military from a bench in a compounds on the Kirkwall docks. Hawke exhaled forcefully, the sight of him pressing on her stomach, hollowing out her chest. All of the grief, the longing, the long years of absence flooded through her and dripped from her eyes to carve fissures through the dust on her cheeks.

Arishok looked up and caught her eye. The Sten at his side who had been talking went silent as the entire company turned to stare at her. Hawke only had eyes for the Arishok, though. She took a couple of steps past the edge of the wall, swallowing. She didn't say anything. What did one say to a dead man? A dead man you killed. A dead man you killed over something that barely even continued to exist. It was all so pointless now. Kirkwall, the nobles, whether or not it was under Qunari occupation. None of that had mattered, in the end. The city was going down, that it was Anders and not the Arishok seemed a quibbling matter of pedantry. She'd trade Kirkwall, the Free Marches, the entire world to have all of her lost things returned to her. Carver, her mother, the Arishok, even Anders. Fenris. Maker, Fenris.

Hawke was snapped out of her grief-stricken reverie when the Arishok stood up, looking down at her, "I have warned you before about wearing that face, demon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long weekend with no updates. Expect another, this next weekend, too.
> 
> I can be bribed with cookies and comments, though


	18. Demon?

Hawke forgot her grief in the wake of confusion. He thought _she_ was a demon? The demons she'd seen before could have looked like someone? Had Carver been a demon? Was the Arishok? "Uh…" she said, eloquent as ever.

The man stalked down the dias stairs towards her, one hand reaching over his back for the massive greataxe she knew he kept there. She knew intimately. She still had the scar under her belly button where it had almost disemboweled her.

Hawke forgot her confusion in the wake of fear. She stumbled backwards, away from the encroaching giant, her hands raised in surrender, "Arishok. It's me. It's me, I swear it. I'm not a demon."

"So you said the last time. I did not believe you then, either." He pulled his weapon from his back, still advancing towards her. He didn't rush, he didn't even look angry. She was a bug, and he was going to squash her, and then he could get back to whatever it was he did, here, now that he was dead.

"Well, maybe you could tell me what else the demon has said before, so we could skip right to the new stuff," she said, ceasing her retreat and dropping her arms in frustration.

"No," Arishok replied before he surged forward, faster than his massive frame should be able to move, just as fast as he was in the Viscount's chamber when he'd opened her gut. Hawke dove to one side, barely missing the wicked blade of his axe and rolled, coming back up to her feet, facing the Qunari.

She reached desperately for the fade, for her magic, for anything, and still, nothing came. She could sense it, she could see it, she was _standing in it_ , but nothing she did could make it respond, could make it follow her commands, could even garner the echo of an answer. She could feel panic clawing at her breast, her breaths coming in sharp shallow gasps.

Arishok sidestepped, circling her carefully, feinting with the axe. Hawke didn't realize she was being herded until she saw the exit to the compound, now behind him. Someone started making the most pathetic little whining noises. It certainly wasn't him, so it had to be her. She clamped her jaw shut and forced deep breaths through her nose. Falling prey to the terror was going to… What? Get her killed? Wasn't she already dead? Her brows furrowed suddenly as she stood up straight.

He tilted his head at her, intrigued by her sudden change in demeanor, but not overly impressed. He hefted the weapon in his hand and strode forward. Hawke dropped to her knees, throwing her arms wide and her head back. She squeezed her eyes closed. She may not be afraid of dying -- again? -- but that didn't mean she wanted to watch it happen.

"Asit tal-eb," she breathed, "It is to be."

Blood thundered in her ears, her heart ignoring the order to release fear and throwing itself repeatedly against her rib cage. Footsteps, slowing, the scrape of metal over stone. Seconds passed. What was he waiting for?

"Your hair is longer," he said at last, causing her face to screw up in renewed confusion, "And you have new lines around your eyes."

Hawke swallowed past the lump in her throat and peaked at the man from under her lids. He was standing before her, looming over her, his axe still held to one side, ready to strike her down. She closed her eyes again, wetting her lips, "It's been… Eight years?"

"Has it." His velvet purr lacked the intonation of a question. He wasn't surprised or even all that curious about the time, "The days are… Different, here." She heard him shift, metal scraping leather, movement. She flinched back at the feel of something against her neck before she went still, opening her eyes. He had put away the weapon and was now touching her neck with thick fingertips. His hand slid up, catching her earrings ( _his earrings_ ) on the tips of his claws, lifting them before letting them drop back down. His brows were drawn together as he looked her over.

Hawke didn't move. The last thing she wanted was to startle the man with the massive axe and sharp claws. She just watched him as he studied her, lifting the ends of her hair and rubbing it between his fingers, remarkably gentle nails scraping over her cheek as he traced the faint laugh lines she had been cultivating since last she saw him.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he stepped back and she slowly lowered her chin to watch him, though her arms stayed spread, held up at her sides, "They suit you," he said simply before he held out a hand to her, palm up. The action was so familiar, so burned into every memory of him, that her grief returned in force and fresh tears snaked down her cheeks. He just watched her, his hand not moving, "I am not pleased by your death, basalit-an."


	19. More Arishok Cuddles

Whatever the Arishok may have actually said, the only thing Hawke heard was _I forgive you._

It still felt like being stabbed in the gut, again. She dropped her arms and held a hand to her stomach, curling in on herself with a choked sob. Of all the things she likely deserved in this life, the Arishok's forgiveness probably wasn't one of them. He only stood there, watching her, stoic and unmoved, likely pondering the madness of humans though not even a flicker showed in his hard eyes.

Hawke gave herself over to the pain, crumpling forward, her forehead resting on the dusty stone just past her knees. She wailed out the fear, the loneliness, the seemingly solid rock underfoot that shifted and gave way and left her falling. Not just this last time, but all the times before. Anders, the Arishok, Mother, Cullen, Carver, the Blight, all the way back to her father. Every moment of her life that she had allowed herself to feel stable only to find herself falling again. Fizzgig had told her that she was still falling, the truth was she had never stopped. This time, she had just leapt, first.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and Hawke found herself being uncurled, peeled apart and lifted away from the cold ground to be crushed against the Arishok's chest. He'd crouched to grab her, and now he shifted down to settle on the floor, pulling her into his lap. It was so out of character that Hawke went stiff before she yanked back, struggling to release herself from his grip. He let her go easily and dropped his hands, watching her.

"What are you doing?"

The man seemed to consider the question before he answered, "There are no tamassran, here, I must see to your well being, myself. That was the correct action."

Correct, as if she were a test, or a question that required answer. She stared at him for a second before she sighed, "If you start beating my back to the beat of a drum, I swear to the Maker, I will end you."

"Again?" She winced at that, but he only tilted his head at her, "You are still prone to panic, Hawke."

 _Yes, actually, now that you mention it._ Hawke looked away, her eyes sliding over the other Qunari and along the walls of the compound. Finally she shook her head. Comfort seemed a rare and exceptional thing in the fade, and it had been the correct action. She leaned forward, crawling tentatively into the man's lap and settling against his chest, "Gently," she said.

He was still for a moment as if processing that before he moved, resting a great hand against her back, the other going to her head, sharp claws sliding through her hair. She tucked her head under his chin and let him soothe the sharp, tight feeling in her chest. The rage remained, but she packaged that back up carefully, storing it in the deepest parts of her where she'd been keeping it all her life. Hidden away, never to be seen again.

Minutes passed while the Champion of Kirkwall and the most powerful man on half a continent sat in the dirt, him petting her while she clung to his shoulders. Finally the man stirred, his voice soft, "Something changed in Hightown."

Hawke picked her head up from against his chest and looked up, over the walls, where the towers were still flickering in and out of existence. She could only watch for a second before she got dizzy again and closed her eyes, "Anders blew up the chantry and the mage circle rebelled. I ended up killing the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander."

"Both?"

"They had it coming."

Silence, then a sharp grunt. The 'predictable bloody humans' feeling in the grunt went unspoken but perfectly understood. Another moment passed before he asked, "How did you die, basalit-an?"

Hawke took a deep breath, a sudden, sharp inhale as if she'd just remembered that she required air before she shook her head, "That surrender and overcome thing didn't work out so well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who couldn't use more of those?


	20. Emprise du Lion

Emprise du Lion was cold. Not chilly cold. Not better pack a sweater cold. It was bitingly cold, it nipped and pinched and chewed and spat you out and then snowed all over your misery. Dorian could feel his balls throttling each other in their attempt to both retract back into his abdomen at the same time.

And yet, that damn ben hassrath spy was still not wearing a shirt.

He could see him, just across the way in a cleared spot in the newly commandeered Suledin Keep, surrounded by several of Leliana's junior spies, teaching them what Dorian could only assume was some underhanded dealing or other. How anyone that big could possibly be an expert on sneaky was lost on the mage, but he put it down to the sheer bulk of the man acting as it's own distraction.

"Sovereign on the lil' one, yeah?"

"Don't be absurd," Dorian switched gears smoothly, glancing at Sera out of the corner of his eye, "The weight difference alone makes that highly unlikely."

The little elf smirked up at him, "Money in the pocket, then, innit?"

The mage narrowed his eyes at her. He was sure he was being swindled. He just wasn't sure how. Sera was as sneaky as the qunari, in only slightly more easy to comprehend ways. He sighed and looked over at the bushes. The larger squirrel already had the nut, stuffed in one cheek and was posturing at the little one, who was skittering around it, testing the waters. There was no way that tiny squirrel was getting that nut. Dorian pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, "If I take that bet, will you promise to stop drawing genitalia in my books?"

She snorted at him as if he'd asked her to please stop breathing, "No." She paused, then offered, like it was an acceptable compromise, "Less innies, more outies."

The mage considered that, "Well…" He hitched his shoulders up against a breeze picking up in the courtyard, "I suppose if I must have genitals, they should at least be the nice sort. Very well, you're on."

Sera just smiled at that, then pulled her bow off her shoulder and nocked an arrow, "Sera! That's cheating!"

She snorted again, lifting the bow and sighting carefully, "Weren't no rules about muckin in the works and whatever." She loosed, and the arrow sprouted from the tree, inches from the large squirrels nose. Both of them scattered, but the large one dropped the nut and the little one was the first back down to the ground to grab it before bolting into the undergrowth and vanishing. The large squirrel screamed a sort of squirrel war cry and charged into the bush after him.

Dorian sighed. One sovereign wasn't, he supposed, too much to pay to have her stop drawing vaginas in the margins of his tomes. He dug into his belt pouch and loosened his cloak just enough to flip the gold at her before tucking it back tightly.

The elf snatched the coin out of the air and made it disappear into a sleeve, grinning at him, "Not so bad. For a flappy robe."

Dorian gave the girl a stern look, "And you're not so bad for smelling like wet dog."

"This is almost sappy," The Bull said from behind Dorian.

The mage startled and spun around, putting a hand to his heart, "Maker! How does something so big not crash around breaking things!"

The qunari gave him a pleased grin and winked his one good eye, "I can be a gentle touch. If you earn it."

Dorian straightened his spine and cleared his throat. He was not blushing. He wasn't. He refused.

Sera laughed, pointing, "He's all red!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There needs to be more River Tam/Riddick crossover fic. I'd like to go down with that ship. Just sayin.
> 
> That has nothing to do with the story I'm writing. Talk back at me! I love it!


	21. Home

Her house was still there. Bits of rubble flickered in and out of existence in the courtyard, one corner couldn't decide if it was damaged, but it was still there. She had never seen the damage, before. She'd grabbed a boy off the street and paid him a gold piece to run and tell Bodahn to pack up the household and meet her at the gates. This was the first time she'd been back, since…

Hawke shook her head and pushed the door open carefully, peeking inside. Broken glass littered the floor, then reformed into windows before littering the floor again. The furniture stayed relatively solid. Mother's battle axes still graced the fireplace. Hawke reached up to grab one, pulling it along with it's ridiculous pink ribboned handle wrapping off the wall.

She hefted the weight. It was solid, a bit heavier than her staff, and she had only slightly more idea of how to use one than Mother had, but it felt good to have a weapon back in her hands. She stuffed the handle through her belt, carefully angling the head to not stab her in the ribs if she had to bend over, then made her way up the stairs, picking her way carefully through the ephemeral glass shards.

Hawke stepped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaning back against it to look around. Her hairbrush and various bottles of lotions, potions, and cosmetics danced over the top of her vanity, never staying in one place long. The large double windows were open, closed, or missing entirely. The roof had randomly appearing holes, the wood alternately dumped on the bed, or missing. She closed her eyes, willing the fade to settle before she opened them again. Nothing. Debris and the flotsam of a life spent living there still flickered and floated around the room.

No matter. She slid across the wall until she was next to the bed, then picked her way over, kneeling by the side before she bent over and peered underneath. Her box didn't move around. It would, occasionally, fade out before coming back, but it didn't move.

A thud from downstairs brought Hawke upright, going still and looking at the door. She tilted her head, listening carefully. Nothing happened and she bent back down, reaching under the bed to hook the box with a finger and drag it out beside her.

Another thud sounded, louder, and she startled, her head popping back over the top of the bed and her body twisting to face the still closed door. Again, a thud, a heavy footstep, some great beast dragging itself up the stairs. The creak of loose steps, the groan of strained wood.

Hawke left the box, standing slowly and pulling the axe from her belt. She slid around the bed, slinking towards the door with light feet. She stumbled, wincing and biting back a cry as debris appeared directly in front of her ankle, but she made it to the door just as the footsteps ceased.

She went still, holding her breath, the qunari battle axe held up over one shoulder, the pink ribbon fluttering around her arm. Silence. Hawke stared hard at the door, her free hand floating towards the handle where it hung, wavering slightly, inches from the metal.

She could feel it, the presence, the beast, just on the other side of the wooden door. She imagined it too, waited, feeling her, it's hand poised over the handle. She jerked her hand back and rubbed her palm against her robe as if to remove dirt it hadn't picked up yet before she tightened it into a fist, swallowing, her eyes compulsively raking over the door as if she could divine what was behind it.

Something shifted, movement, another creak of floorboards before something hit the door. Not hard, just tapping against the wood, then the chalkboard screech of claws gouging into the wood.

_"Precious thing."_

Hawke jerked back, tipping over onto her ass on the floor with a soft thud. The voice was _loud,_ resonant, it seemed to echo in the small space. Though the words were soft, the tone was hard, deep and tight with malice.

She scrambled back, then picked herself up, the sounds of movement from outside drowned out entirely with her hard breaths and the sudden ringing in her ears. Hawke bolted around the side of the bed, tripping to fall flat over more debris but barely noticing when the door thudded, banging, the wood cracking.

 _Don't look. Don't look. Don't look._ Hawke grabbed for the box, her nails catching the corner and flipping it up on one side, the top falling away and the braids tumbling out onto the floor. She could hear her own breaths, wheezing, high pitched. She was hyperventilating, she knew it, could feel it, the light headed dizziness, the grey spots in her vision, but she couldn't stop.

THUD. _"Little thing!"_

Hawke whimpered, her hands shaking as she dropped the axe, stuffing bits of hair back into the box, pushing the lid on, ducked down low against the side of the bed away from the door. She couldn't see what was happening, she didn't want to see what was happening, as if seeing it would make it real, as if not seeing it would make it less so.

**THUD. CRACK.**

She swept the box into her arms and grabbed the axe, leaping for the windows. She crashed into them as they flickered closed suddenly, and the glass shattered, leaving cold marks against her skin that she knew were cuts, but didn't stop to look at. She kept going, hitting the sill with a hip and tipping out over it with one arm hooked over the paneling. Shards of glass dug into her hip as she swung over, and her forearm as she hung against the edge, feet flailing for purchase against the slick wall. A second. Only a second she dangled from the second story window before another thud reverberated through the house and she let go.


	22. Lovely Weather

"Lovely weather we're having, Serah."

Hawke stared at the woman, not responding. She knew without needing a mirror that her face looked like it had gone through a plate glass window -- because it had. The right arm and left side of her robe were soaked in blood, leaving a trail of the stuff behind her. She was carrying a wickedly sharp battle axe festooned with pink ribbon in one hand, with a box stuffed under her elbow, clinging to one wall and for all appearances about to bleed out on the street. And the woman was smiling at her cluelessly.

Hawke just shook her head, a quick, shuddering sort of thing and limped forward a couple more paces before she reached the alley and tilted, letting herself spin around the side and slide down the wall in one only vaguely purposeful motion. She pushed herself up and crawled her legs into the alleyway, getting herself leaned back against the wall before she dropped the box and let the axe slip from her fingers. She was panting, exhausted, not walking anymore so much as barely controlling a fall. She'd slid down the last set of stairs on her rear, and if she didn't get the bleeding under control, soon, she very likely would bleed out right there on the street.

Did dead people bleed out? What happened to a dead person that died? Maker help her, she didn't know, and the so called authorities in Thedas had somehow managed to never even ask that question. Arseholes and idiots, bickering about magic and whether Andraste was sleeping with Shartan instead of the important shit -- first aid for the newly deceased.

Hawke giggled at herself. She recognized, somewhere in the haze, that she didn't sound entirely sane, but the thought just floated there, disconnected, unremarked, and quickly forgotten.

She ripped at the buttons of her robe, flinging several off in unknown directions and shoved it down her shoulders, peeling the sticky fabric off her arm before she ripping at the shoulder seam, pulling a sleeve off to jamb into her bleeding hip with a grunt of pain.

"Lovely weather we're having, Serah."

The woman wasn't even talking to Hawke that time, but a man that was walking past the alley. Neither of them noticed her as the man smiled and tipped his hat before continuing on his way. They were useless. They were all useless. She'd stumbled into several in hightown, asking for help, and all of them just kept going about their days. They didn't see anything, not the demons in their midst, not the bleeding woman stripping herself in an alley. They barely saw each other. It was just another day in Kirkwall, the sun shining and children laughing and if Hawke ever found those phantom children, she was going to strangle them with her bare hands.

One hand still clutching the sleeve to her hip, she picked up the axe and slammed in blade first into the cobblestone to make a cut in her robe that she pulled into a long strip with her teeth. She pulled it weekly around her torso to knot it around the sleeve, keeping one end in her teeth to tighten it with.

"Lovely weather we're having, Serah."

It was the same man. The exact same man, now wandering the other direction who tipped his hat at the woman and smiled.

"Have you even looked up? There is no bloody weather! It's a bleeding night sky that the sun keeps flickering through because it can't figure out where it's supposed to fucking be, you stupid bitch!" Neither person looked at her, her outburst not even registering in their serene, sunny, laughing-children lives.

Hawke gasped in another breath and picked up the axe again, making another cut in the robe by dint of catching it between blade and stone, tearing another strip off to wrap around the long gash in her arm. Her ankle was killing her, and was showing signs of swelling, but she barely noticed. It would hold her weight, barely, and that's all she needed it do, right this second.

She gripped the box back under her elbow and used the axe and leverage herself up to her knees before she crawled weakly to her feet, leaving her ripped and bloodied robe in a crumpled pile against the wall. She stumbled back out towards the street. The Arishok was just down that next set of stairs. One more set of stairs and she could collapse. One more decent and she could at least bleed out in the arms of a loved one.

"Lovely…"

Hawke lurched forward, the axe raised to swing it with all the negligible strength she could muster. The fine weapon didn't require a lot of strength. It slid into the woman's shoulder like a hot knife through butter, stopping only when it was buried in the thick meat of her chest. Hawke got her injured foot on the woman, now lying on the ground and choking on the blood flooding her lung, and pulled the axe out before she brought it down again. And again. And again.

Unable to lift the weapon over her head again, Hawke stumbled backwards, leaning against the wall as she panted, her torn shift now covered in two sets of blood, and her hair matted with gore. The man was returning on another of his endless loops around the block.

"Lovely weather we're having, Serah," Hawke murmured at him. He smiled at her and tipped his hat.


	23. Red Ribbon

Hawke opened her eyes on the dimly lit canvas of a tent. Distinct little stings lined her face and arms, nearly drowning out the pronounced ache of overburdened muscles and a twisted ankle. Candlelight picked out a few details, except the candle itself -- that appeared to be missing, only the light was there, though it seemed to move. Her axe was leaning against a stool across the room. Someone had cleaned off the blood, though the pink ribbons were now stained and ragged. Her box was set on top, the top off and leaning against the side.

"Everytime I see you, you have new lines on your face."

She narrowed her eyes at that, peering at the ceiling for a long moment as if unsure how to respond. Finally she took a long breath, "I think you may have just made a joke, Arishok."

"Perhaps," the man answered in his soft velvet voice. One great hand appeared, claws sliding carefully against the few bits of flesh on her face that weren't stinging and she turned to look at him. He was seated next to the cot on a second stool, one elbow resting on his knees as he leaned forward over her. His free hand was dangling a long, thick rope of white hair held together with red leather strips between his knees. Hawke stared at the braid until the Arishok noticed her gaze and lifted it, letting it hang over two fingers. He looked at it as well, "This is…"

"Your hair," she answered, swallowing when her gaze settled back on his face.

He nodded at that, pulling his other hand back from her face to pull the braid taut, looking at it like it meant something, and he wasn't sure what, "I do not recall you being in a position to braid my hair."

Hawke almost smiled at that. Almost. Somehow, she just couldn't quite work up the irreverence to joke about the Arishok's death. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "I was a little preoccupied. Fenris did that for me."

"The elf that would mate you." He noticed her raised brows and his shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug, "Bas often become…" he paused as he searched for a word, "Suspicious of perceived rivals when they wish to mate."

"And qunari don't?"

"Qunari who wish to mate go to Tamassran."

Hawke furrowed her brows, "It's really that easy? You can just not feel physical attraction to a single specific person?"

Arishok seemed to consider that for a moment, "The tamassran would say yes."

"What do you say?"

"I do not question tamassran."

She snorted softly and shifted on the cot, trying to find a more comfortable position from which to be in pain, "You're dead. It's time to start questioning everything."

Arishok just stared at her for a moment before he leveraged his weight up off the stool and went to her box, dropping his braid in and picking through the other contents with a single careful claw. His voice was soft when he finally answered, and he did not look up at her, "No, it is not so easy." Eventually he picked out another white braid and held it up her.

"Ketojan. The serebas that submitted to the Qun when I was forced to kill your men. The first time."

He just looked at the braid for a moment before dropping it back into the box. He picked through the rest of the hair before his claw caught on a red ribbon, faded in places to pale rose. It held no braid together. He lifted it to show to her.

Hawke stared at it, her brows drawn together, "I… I don't…" She suddenly gave him an awkward smile, "Fenris uses a ribbon like that on his wrist. The fade is probably just inserting things in strange places, again."


	24. The First Dragon

Iron Bull was on top of the dragon. His massive legs clamped around the sides of the neck, knees digging into the scales, as if it were a rather large, fire-breathing, somewhat angry horse. Dorian lowered his staff and tilted his head, watching.

"This is not…" The mage sighed before raising his voice so the qunari could hear him, "This is not part of the plan!" The mercenary was now holding on with one hand, waving the other over his head. Maker, the man was insane.

Sera came to a skidding halt next to him. She wasn't even looking at the dragon, anymore, "Got babies, Flappy Robes. Try an' keep up." The elf had barely finished talking before she was moving again, sprinting to one side, loosing more arrows than he could count.

He spun around. The Inquisitor already had the whole brood of dragonlings gathered up around him, bashing them repeatedly with his shield. Dorian tossed a barrier on him, then fire. He spread his arms, shrugging, and shooting a look at the sky. A look that told the Maker that he knew he was there. Knew he was watching, and hoped he was having a good laugh. He threw out some lightning. Watched the mass of dragonlings and Inquisitor wriggle across the field, bodies dropping. Another barrier, some more fire.

That did the trick. The last of the dragonlings fell and the inquisitor yanked his sword out of the neck of one before looking around. Dorian followed his gaze. Mother dragon was not where they had left her. With a soft curse, Dorian ducked down next to some rocks and scanned the sky. A screech pinpointed her position as she cartwheeled wing over wing in the sky, attempting to throw the crazed Qunari clinging to her back.

Sera didn't even seem to aim. She just leapt up to a rock and screamed curses at the beast, dropping arrow after arrow after arrow. The inquisitor stood there, sword down, shield hanging loosely, watching the scene, "Any time you want quit messing around, Bull, and bring her back down here!"

"Incoming, boss!" Bull gripped the dragon's neck and kicked, stabbing the thing repeatedly in the neck with a dagger. His normal two handed sword having been tossed to one side when he climbed up on top of her.

Dorian waved his hands helplessly before he growled and raised his staff. If the mercenary insisted on standing on top of the target, he couldn't be held responsible if the man got singed. He did attempt to aim though. How Sera managed to sink most shots while barely looking, he did not know. He hopped up onto the rock next to the screeching elf -- she wasn't even bothering with words anymore, just yelling in something like exhilaration -- and unleashed bolt after bolt from his staff.

The dragon was not slowing down. She was driving directly towards them. No soft landing, she was going to crash into the rocks and probably take the four of them out with her. Sera finally stopped yelling, "Bollocks," she said softly. Dorian flung a barrier at Bull just as the inquisitor crashed into them from the side, launching all three out of the path of the beast.

Nothing happened for a second before the wind picked up, the qunari was yelling, then the crash, the ground shaking rumble as the beast landed behind them, the crack of stone, sliding. Then silence. Another second, and a roar echoed through the crag. That wasn't the dragon.

Dorian scrambled to his feet, spinning. Bull was standing to one side of the scar the dragon's body had made, apparently having thrown himself off before the crash. His arms were held out, his head back, howling at the heavens. Dorian stared, wide eyed. Maker but he was a sight to see, triumphant, powerful.

A higher pitched cry joined the basso rumble of the qunari as Sera flung herself forward, barreling into Bull's chest and climbing him like a tree to get up on his shoulders, her own arms held out, shrieking gales of laughter.

His eyes slid to the side, gazing at the gargantuan corpse of the dragon in shock. He looked back just in time to see the mercenary, elf still riding his shoulders, racing towards him. He gasped, "Bull! Bull, I don't…" The pair of them charged into him and he got caught in the great arms of the mercenary, lifted right off his feet and spun around.

With another great shout, the Inquisitor caught them both in his arms and whooped, pushing the whole pile several feet to one side before he released them. A squeeze from the iron bull, and he was set down gently. Sera gripped the horns of the mercenary, panting, still giggling.

The laughter continued while they caught their breath, huddling close to each other, hands squeezing and petting, reassuring themselves that everyone had made it out okay. Then the Inquisitor had to go and open his stupid mouth, "Wait'll Josie hears about this."

Dorian swallowed, dropping his arms and sliding a step to one side. The leader of their party didn't even notice. Bull did. His big hand slid down the mage's back to settle at his waist, holding the vint close to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a breather from the angst. And leave feedback.


	25. Laughter

"Tell Fenris his dragon plans to fly," Hawke muttered to herself, a high pitched whiny sort of impression that sounded almost exactly nothing like anything she had ever said, but matched her mood, "Flap flap flap, I'll be taking off any second, now. Any second…" She raised her head, pausing and staring at the wall in front of her. Her hand stilled where she was wrapping the red ribbon around her wrist to match where Fenris had kept it. He wore it for her. She couldn't quite remember why, just at the moment, but it would come to her. It would come to her if…

She shook herself and looked back down at what she was doing, getting the end of the ribbon tucked under itself, "A dragon and a batty old woman. She…" Another pause, blinking, "Or me. And me. Dragon and a batty old woman who talks too much…" A furrow on her brow, "Batty? Nutty. No… Just old." She nodded, that felt right.

There was a shifting behind her and she grabbed her axe, spinning into a defensive crouch. The Arishok was leaning against the beam the held up that side of the tent, watching her. She exhaled, standing back up straight and lowering the weapon, tilting her head at him. She was naked. Had been, since she'd woken up. Clothing didn't magically appear on her, or shift and change. She didn't think much about it.

Not like anyone else in this town would even notice that she was naked. No one but the Arishok. He made no attempt to hide his gaze, caressing her curves. Nor did he leer, or linger, or even make a pretence at shame. Hawke felt like she should giggle, or blush, or maybe twirl her hair or something. She did none of those things, just sinking low into one hip as his eyes finally found hers, "See anything you like?"

"Yes." He wasn't flirting. She wasn't sure he would know how. He was just confirming a fact, "You have a dimple, on your spine, just above…"

Hawke cut him off with a shake of the axe, "Don't go getting any ideas. You had your chance," she said as she took a couple of steps towards him, gesturing with the weapon, "You were too busy looking for old books that don't mean…" She trailed off as he took the axe away. There hadn't been a struggle. No dodging, weaving, no fight. He'd just reached out and plucked it from her hand. She stared at it before looking back up at him, "That's why I'm a mage… Was a…" her brows furrowed and her gaze drifted to one side, "Should be?"

A large hand on her shoulder brought her back and she looked up at him. He was watching her with a strange expression, "Perhaps you should sleep," he said.

Her eyes widened, "Sleep? I haven't slept in…" She blinked, glancing up at the starscape, the sun still shifting, moving, fading away before popping up somewhere else. She shook her head, "I'll sleep when I'm dead. Haha." He didn't smile at her, but it wasn't that sort of joke.

They were silent for several moments, his claws tracing down her spine to find that dimple. Contrary to her protestations, she didn't object. It had been quite a long time since anyone had stroked her with the undirected appreciation shown by the Arishok. The feel of his calloused fingertips sliding over her flesh was comforting, grounding, almost laughably sane. If Fenris were here… She looked down, plucking at the ribbon around her wrist.

Fenris would like it here -- no magic, no slavers, nothing left to fight. But no. It was better that he wasn't. Hawke felt a stab of selfish pleasure, that she wasn't the one left behind. That she didn't have to continue moving through a world without him in it. But if that were true, why was she still mourning?

She looked up at the Arishok, murmuring, "Why are you here?"

He arched a brow at her, "Here…?"

"Here. Why aren't you in Par Vollen? Why haven't you left Kirkwall? You're still holding court from a bench in a compound on the docks. You're a god sitting in the gutter with the street rats," he blinked at that, but didn't comment, "Why not leave? Or take over the city, again? No champion here to stop you."

"We did." Hawke's brows raised and he gave a shrug of his large shoulders, "We had control of the city in less than a day." He went silent, watching her, his hand stilled, his palm warm against the swell of her hip, "No one noticed."

She stared at him. Long, long seconds passed while she stared. Finally, she couldn't hold it any longer and snorted, breaking out into breathless guffaws. She leaned forward to rest her hands on her knees, her belly shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks as if she'd never heard anything so funny in her life.

One corner of the Arishok's lips twitched upward in answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help it. That nefarious Arishok is too sexy. I blame Rick D. Wasserman, the voice actor.


	26. Mother

"Is Carver with you? Yes, Mother. Yes, in fact, Carver's around here somewhere. Lost some weight. Don't mind the black veins and pale eyes and stab wounds. Bit a'sunshine clear that right up." Hawke tilted her head at the door to the hovel, "By the way, you're dead. Sorry about that. Bit of a mishap with a blood mage and a dirty hatchet. On the plus side, your breasts are far perkier, what with the twenty three year old they used to belong to."

She nodded slowly, her lips pursing. This conversation was going to be wonderful. No problem.

"Really, sister?" Hawke turned her head, not even a little surprised to see Carver standing there. He glanced down, noting the braids strung together in a rope hung low around her hips, the battleaxe complete with blood stained, pink ribboned tails, the complete lack of clothing. He looked back up at her face, "Gone native, already?"

"I tried to convince Arishok to paint me. Turns out vitaar is toxic to humans."

Her brother just nodded at that, looking back at the door, as if she'd commented on the lovely weather, "Didn't expect you'd come here."

Hawke wasn't sure if he was being understanding, or accusing, so she didn't respond, just watching him.

A minute passed before he looked back at her, then glanced down at the belt again, "Is that my hair?"

Hawke shrugged, looking away, "I was gonna take an ear, but Varric beat me to it."

Carver laughed at that, shaking his head, "Well, well, well. You did care after all."

"You're dead, baby brother. It's time to grow up, now."

He shot her a narrow-eyed glare at that, but didn't respond. Instead he pointed with his chin, "Who're the others?"

Hawke stared at him, trying to discern if he really wanted to know, or just wanted to rub her nose in it. Finally she sighed softly, "Ketojan, you, Mother, Arishok, Anders."

His brows raised towards his hairline at the last name but he didn't comment on it, pale eyes sliding down to look at the hair, cataloging them before he looked back up, "You missed one."

Hawke arched a brow, "Ketojan, you, Mother, Arishok, Anders," she repeated, shrugging.

"There are six braids." He pointed.

Her brows knit together when she looked down, sliding the belt around her waist to see all the braids. She stopped at a long black one with a pale blue ribbon and fingered it for a moment. "Huh," she said softly.

Carver shrugged, "Stuff changes around here all the time." He looked back up at the door and after a moment Hawke joined him, twisting the belt around so the unknown braid was at her back. "Didn't expect to come back here, myself," he said finally, his voice soft, reluctant.

She had no idea how to respond that. All things considered, her baby brother was the only person she never had a serious reply for. They'd never spoken a common language. She swallowed and hitched a shoulder awkwardly. "Bela was in love with you." Hawke blinked. She hadn't meant to say that, it just sort of happened. She cleared her throat and looked away.

Her brother was silent for long enough that she looked back to make sure he was still there. He was watching her with a speculative look, a sad smile hinted at in the curve of his lips. He looked away, as if aware that his gaze stung, "I know," he replied, "But it's nice to hear."

Hawke nodded at that, shifting her weight before she answered, "Yeah, well. She blamed me, vanished with the relic, caused the qunari to invade and I had to kill the Arishok so… Your taste in girlfriends? Still sucks."

Carver just smiled at that, his eyes narrowing, "I love you, too, big sister." He took a breath and continued before she could think of a response, "Just tell her…" He shrugged, "Don't tell her. Just come home from the deep roads, baby brother hale and healthy, gold spilling from bags and a bright future. Maybe it's cruel, maybe she won't like it, when she figures out we're all… But this once... This once, make it so everyone comes home."

She stared at him for a long moment before swallowing the lump in her throat, "This once, baby brother, everyone _does_ come home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thank yous to everyone leaving critiques and comments. I don't always respond, but I really appreciate every one I get. So. Good on you. *confetti*


	27. Loose Ends

Hawke stared at the little room in the hovel, her fingers tracing the belt of hair around her hips, like the prayer beads she would sometimes see people playing with in church, when she was younger. The names repeated themselves in her head, a silent Litany -- Carver, Mother, Arishok, Anders. Two braids she didn't recognize, then back to the beginning.

Her bed was there, though she hadn't slept in it in over ten years. The bedding shifted, tossed around, changed, very occasionally tucked in and made up. The small chest at the foot of the bed didn't change much, but she knew, if she opened it, the clothing inside would be shifting with a speed calculated to make her sick. She didn't open it.

Her head lolled slowly to one side, rolling her forehead against the cool wall, her eyes slipping closed, letting the sounds of the city filter through her ears. Children laughing, people in the marketplace. The soft, distant sound of someone playing a lute. She wondered, idly, if it were the same lute player, now dead, but still playing, but dismissed the thought. She'd never found the lute player in Kirkwall, and she doubted they could tell if she asked now.

Perhaps she should feel rage, she'd felt rage before. All she could manage to drag from the depths was a sort of resigned exhaustion. Kirkwall was immutable, unchanging. Even as the trappings of the place flickered and flitted and floated, the soul stood strong and hard as diamond. People died, and the sun shined, and the children laughed, and Hawke added another braid to her box.

Mother was blessedly silent, now. She’d wailed, then wept, then slumped silent and staring and gasping in shallow breaths before she’d dropped into a peaceful sleep. Hawke took a deep breath, standing straight from where she had been leaning against the door jamb. Mother would never have to cry, again. Not anymore.

She reached down and hooked a couple of sticky fingers around the ragged, soaked pink ribbons and hefted the battleaxe back into her hand, wiping the wickedly sharp blade off against her hip and thigh. before she turned from the room for the last time and looked at her family. Mother and Carver, resting next to each other on the shabby, threadbare chairs. They didn't even match, having been picked up or scavenged over time.

The fire could decide if it was lit or not, but it was lit enough to provide a cozy, intimate light to the scene. Hawke nodded to herself. That was fitting. The flickering light made the shadows dance over their faces, staring now into some future Hawke couldn't see. Yet. But Soon.

Carver, Mother, Arishok, Anders. Two braids she didn't recognize, then back to the beginning. The fade kept changing things, adding braids to her belt where they didn't belong, moving things around. And she was tired. So, incredibly tired. She would go home to the Arishok, and crawl into his lap, and lean against his warm skin, and bury her face in his strong neck and drift off to the sound of his strange language and the feel of his gentle claws, grown bold now with death.

Hawke walked over and brushed a piece of hair away from her brother's forehead, "Sweet dreams, baby brother," she murmured, near silent, "Take Mother my love." She bent to press her lips against the cooling forehead of the corpse before she stood, and walked out of the hovel for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still love me?


	28. Eyes to Eye

Dorian had seen the fight from his window in the library. He hadn't been watching, or anything. He just happened to be sitting in that chair when his attention wandered. This is what he told himself. He knew he was lying, but tried not to ask why. When there are people trying to kill people, in Skyhold, he expected it was his duty to get involved. This was also a lie, but he decided to examine that one later -- there were, after all, people to save. That damn ben hassrath spy, for instance.

He scurried down the stairs and jogged past Solas who paid him even less mind than usual, out the door, through the commander's office with a wink and a smile -- the commander blushed so prettily when he thought he was being hit on -- and hurried over the parapets, through multiple doors, past several startled soldiers and at least one surprised couple, before arriving just as the Inquisitor was leaving via the stairs.

The fight was over. He'd missed it -- hell, people were already cleaning up the bodies. He panted softly before clearing his throat and standing up straight, trying to look like he was just out for a walk. The mercenary didn't buy that any more than Dorian did, but at least he didn't call him on it, this time. He did tilt his head, though, watching the mage as if curious what he might do.

The mage side-stepped to a wall and leaned against it, examining his nails -- it had been ages since he'd gotten a proper manicure, "Bar brawl gone wrong?"

The qunari glanced down at one of the men before looking back up. He shrugged, "A message from the Qun."

Dorian blinked, standing up straight again. He took a couple steps forward to peer over the wall at the body that had been thrown over the side before looking back, "Are you…" He closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked. A pause, he shrugged carefully, putting his arms behind his back, "Not a very persuasive one."

Bull arched an expressive brow at him, "Got the point across."

"Ah, yes," the mage said, his lips twisting into an amused grin, "The Qunari never did get that live and let live…" He cut off when the mercenary gripped the front of his tunic in one fist. He hadn't even seen Bull move. The man was damn creepy with his silent and his quick, and his… Maker, the beast was pure muscle. He wasn't moving fast, now, though. He was slow, precise, every movement calculated to be part of the message as he backed the mage into the wall and held him there, standing just a little too close for it to be a threat, and a little too far away for it to be a promise.

"That isn't the conversation you want to have," the qunari said softly.

No, it wasn't. Dorian didn't much care about the internal machinations of the Qun. Except, he dared to admit to himself, that they had just threatened someone he did not wish dead. He tried to look up at the (former?) spy, but his gaze got caught on his lips. Bisected by a scar, but still, for all of it, somehow soft, parted slightly, glistening from where they had been licked recently. Whatever humorous riposte he had been about to throw out died in his throat and he looked away, pressing his own lips together.

They were frozen there, hung in the balance, teetering on an edge that Dorian didn't entirely understand, and didn't entirely wish to dissect, for several long seconds, the time counted by the throb of his own quickened heartbeat in his ears. Finally, the qunari spoke again, his rough voice thoughtful, as if talking to himself, "Pride of the Altus. Excels at everything he does. Except asking for what he wants."

Dorian huffed softly, but didn't look up, turning his head farther, staring out over the wall. He licked his lips, sure that they had dried out in the last fifteen seconds, somehow. He was seconds from thinking up a truly spectacular comeback when the damn mercenary kept talking, "You think I'm going to kiss you." Dorian went still, blinking at the snow surrounding the keep, the mountains in the distance. Sweet Maker, would he? How was the mage to respond? Should he press closer? Slide his fingertips up the man's massive chest? Be passive, and let them man take what he wanted? Pull away? Dorian tossed out that last option. Pulling away might send the wrong message.

He was halfway to deciding that his entire run over here had been a bad idea to begin with when the Bull moved, sliding his hand up the mage's chest to cup his jaw, long thumb tracing lightly over Dorian's bottom lip, "Let me be very clear, Vint. When I kiss you, you'll be looking me in the eye and asking for it."

Dorian did look up, then, his brows raised. Their gazes locked for an instant, one split second that lasted an eternity, and no time at all, before the qunari turned away, walking down the stairs into the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting that fire started. You know how I love a good barbeque. Low and slow.


	29. Kadan

Cuddling with a demonic rapist wasn't the worst thing Hawke had ever done. It wasn't even the worst thing she'd done, today. Or, whatever counted as recent time period, in this place.

She'd have to kill him, too, eventually, of course. Hawke wasn't stupid. She knew it wasn't her Arishok. Her Arishok would never have pulled her into his arms so easily. Her Arishok would never have dismissed his entourage with a wave of hand. Her Arishok would never have carried her into his tent, removed most of his own clothing and settled down amongst the cushions with her still strewn across his lap and chest. But for now, for right now, just this moment in time, just these extra seconds to pretend, to sink easily into the illusion that the warm flesh pressed against her was his…

It shouldn't be okay. The voice, in the back of her head, told her it shouldn't be okay, but that voice was still screaming. Screeching, incoherent terror. It was better not to listen to that voice. That voice was quite, quite mad, and she prefered the quiet, peaceful voices. The ones that murmured that everything was fine, that she could drift off peacefully, here, get some much needed rest. She was safe, and everything was going to be okay.

Not that she could follow their advice. She'd drifted off twice, now, only to jerk awake at the last second, her heart pounding in her chest, unable to breath. After the second time she had given up on the idea of sleep and just lay there, staring at the tent wall and the flickering candlelight from the missing candle.

"Do you remember?" His velvet purr interrupted her dismal thoughts, but wasn't unwelcome. She shifted a little to show she was listening, but didn't respond, waiting. A moment passed, his large hand petting down her back to find the dimple he was so enamored with, "Killing me?"

She turned her head to look up at him. He wasn't looking at her, his gaze fixed in his own memory, "Yes," she answered simply. A pause, his brows furrowing. She continued, "Do you not?"

Arishok tilted his head, considering, "I remember you told me that you were still a leaf, and I still the wind, and you had merely let go of the ground." A corner of his lips twitched upward at that, proud or maybe fond, though it was his only reaction to the memory, "You were…" A long silence, his claws tracing the hollow of her hip, "Glorious. And terrible. And… Heartbroken?" He furrowed his brows, as if unsure if that were the right word, or perhaps even confused about what heartbroken felt like.

She turned her head again, resting her chin on his large shoulder, unable to look at him anymore, "I loved you," she breathed quietly. No time like after death to be honest. She pressed closer against his chest and his arms tightened around her.

"Were I any other lord, and you any other lady…"

Hawke smiled at that, pressing her lips against his collarbone, "We'd have had lots of dirty sex, never spoken of anything important, and probably ended up hating each other."

"Madness," he grunted, shaking his head. Even in death, he couldn't quite grasp humanity. He shifted, adjusting her weight before he settled back to smooth her hair, claws tangling and pulling gently at the strands, "We're going to fade away, here. Cast adrift in this place." He didn't seem entirely disgusted with the idea, just resigned.

She took a breath before releasing it in one long rush, "I think I always knew. That Kirkwall would be the last thing I'd ever see. This is where all my demons hide."

Arishok's big hand gripped the back of her head, his other getting a handful of hip, "It is... Not unpleasant, knowing you will be here," a long pause, his voice dropping, almost reluctant "Kadan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawthawt Arishok sexeh times would be completely out of character, wouldn't they?


	30. Hopscotch

"I am not familiar with this sport."

Hawke sighed, looking up and back over her shoulder from where she was crawling around in the courtyard, drawing boxes with a piece of charcoal, "It's not a sport. It's a game."

The Arishok tilted his head at her, as if trying to parse the difference between those two words, "Game," he repeated.

She finished the last box and crawled to her feet, tossing the piece of charcoal to one side and wiping her hands off on her hips, "It's called hopscotch." She walked back to him before turning to examine her work. It was messy, and she didn't really remember where all the boxes went, but it would do.

He had not returned to his clothes wearing ways, and thus was in naught but a gold necklace and a pair of thin, dark pants, Hawke guessed that he had decided her native-going non-concern with standards of decency was a brilliant idea, but she didn't like to toot her own horn. He was standing with his arms crossed over his massive chest, staring at the design she'd doodled all over his immaculate stone courtyard, "Hop… Scotch," he repeated. sounding unconvinced that this wasn't just some way to humiliate him in front of his men, which, admittedly, it completely was.

She smiling brilliantly at him and leaned over to collect her little pile of rocks, "Hopscotch," she repeated back to him, "You uh.. Toss some rocks in, then you have to hop over to the other side, skipping where the rocks are, then collect them on the way back. Or fail." She looked up at him, a grim expression on her face, "And you know what that means."

He narrowed his eyes, peering at the game space, "Death." He nodded.

"No. I just get to make fun of you for the rest of the…" She glanced up at the sky, "Dayish."

Arishok looked up at her, grunting softly before he tossed his head, an oddly horse like motion, "I will not fail," he promised, solemnly.

"I'm warning you, I was the hopscotch champion back in…" She stopped, blinking at the boxes. She couldn't remember. Somewhere. She'd... Her brows furrowed before she tossed the handful of rocks and smiled at him, "Back in the day." She hopped into the field before he could remark on her hesitation and made it to the other side with no serious mishaps. When she turned her was standing behind her on one foot, having followed her through the game.

Hawke twisted her lips at him and made shooing motions. He stepped into the home spot and moved around behind her again. She shook her head, grinning to herself before she started back. She stopped in boxes eight and nine, looking down at the stone in seven. A second later and his feet landed behind hers in the boxes, and then his arm was around her waist, holding her tight to his hips as he bent forward over her, pushing her down as well, his free hand reaching for the rock.

She gasped, then twisted, spinning out his grasp and to one side, turning to look at him, her eyes wide, one hand pressed hard against her navel, trying to calm the butterflies. The Arishok looked down at the belt of braids that had come loose in his hand before he held it out to her, his voice soft, almost deliberately non-threatening, "You did not explain the rules for removing your opponent."

She stared at him, suspicious, searching his eyes before she huffed a small, silent laugh, "That… Wasn't sexual at all, was it?"

His eyes slid down her body to catch on the hand still pressed to the skin between her bellybutton and pubic bone. A second passed before he stepped carefully out of the boxes he had been in, catching her eyes again, "You wish to mate." It was almost a question.

She furrowed her brows, shaking her head at him, "And you don't." It was almost a question, too.

Arishok's eyes roamed the courtyard, his face tightly controlled, "The Qun…"

"Fuck the Qun." He swung his heavy gaze back to her, eyes flashing anger, but she just kept talking, "You're playing hopscotch with a naked dead woman in a Kirkwall more concerned with the nonexistent weather than with the corpses they have to walk over on their endless loops. There is no Qun, here. You are not the Arishok. You don't have a name, anymore." She breathed heavily, almost panting in emotion as the qunari stared at her. Almost a full minute before he started slightly and took a single, hesitant step closer, then another, long claws reaching for her waist.

She looked down at the hand, and the belt it still held under his long thumb. Mother, Arishok, Anders… And three braids she didn't recognize. She made a low, animal noise of frustration and ripped the thing from his hand, counting the braids. Six, where there should be three. The man stopped moving and now arched a brow at her, curious. She shook her head at him, "Stupid fade keeps changing things. Why does it keep… Why can't it leave me alone?!"

Hawke threw the belt down and spun on her heel, stalking away, leaving the Arishok to watch her go, one hand still held out, reaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if hawthawt Arishok sexeh times is out of character, I'm still allowed to torment you with it, yes? Yes.


	31. Pink Ribbons

The qunari had taken over the hopscotch field. The game had evolved, too. It wasn't the sort of game one would teach to children, anymore. Now, they started at opposite ends, and as long as their feet didn't move from the boxes, they could use any means necessary to remove their opponent from their boxes. Hawke hadn't known that qunari could improvise. She wasn't actually certain they knew they were improvising. They'd only seen the one game with her and the Arishok -- a game he had obviously won, when she'd ceded the field.

She sat in the middle of the dias stairs, watching them. The Arishok sat on his bench, watching her. Perhaps she should go to him, take his hand, see what he'd been reaching for when she had fled from him, but she couldn't make herself stand up. She couldn't make the muscles work, the brain send the right signals. She couldn't think. The voices just kept getting louder, and now they were arguing, and still, and still… The horrible, unending screaming in her own voice.

Her hands tightened on the axe to keep them from going to her head. It was important not to look crazy. Even if she was, even if no one really had any question about that, it seemed important, somehow, to avoid the appearance. Instead, she wrapped and re-wrapped the brown-stained pink ribbons around the handle and watched as another Sten lost his boxes to a Karashok.

Why she had a battleaxe, and what had possessed someone to wrap it in pink ribbons was a question she wasn't prepared to ask herself, right now.

The braids were still lying where she had left them. No one had seen fit to move them. The fade was still changing them. The place had seen fit to torment her with them. She even recognized the long black braid with the pale blue ribbon. It was the same braid the fade had put there. She remembered it being on the belt. It just wasn't hers. The grey braid, that one was new.

Hawke squeezed her eyes closed and ducked her chin close to her chest, trying to block out the noise in her head, the screaming, the children laughing, the lute. She focused on the axe. Unwrapping, Wrapping, her fingertips slid over the stiff brown ribbon that had been soft and pink at some point There was still a smudged void in the stains where her grip on the handle had protected it from blood splatter.

She doubted. That was what was killing her. She questioned. Was the demon behind her, on the bench? Or running through the hallways of her mind, smashing unfettered into the inside of her skull. Did demons laugh like children, or scream ceaselessly into the void? Would the man waiting behind her be a gentle and giving lover, or would his hands go to her neck and squeeze and claw and…

Unwrap ribbons, rewrap them, tie a knot in one. _You missed one. There are six braids._ Hawke blinked. Had someone said that, or was that just another voice in her head? She looked around, no one close enough to talk so easily. She glanced at the belt, counting. Six braids. Must have been a voice in her head. Someone else's voice in her head. Would demons use her voice, or someone else's?

She smiled softly at the axe, at least when she did give in to madness, she would have the craziest axe ever to keep her company. It was a solid weapon. Weighty, uncompromising in it's pink and proud little girl's princess axeness. Axeness. She needed to ask Varric if that was a word. He would know. He wouldn't change, like the braids changed, like the axe…

Hawke went very still. The axe hadn't changed. It was exactly the same as when she had plucked it from above the fireplace in her house. The blood stains were still there. The smudged void where she could remember holding it. A chip on one side of the blade where she could remember banging it into the stone to cut her robes. Her clothes didn't flicker and change, she hadn't magically gained clothing. The Arishok's thin, dark pants hadn't gained new boots and pauldrons when he had taken them off.

Just the braids. Her eyes slid up slowly, unwillingly, catching on the line of braids. Someone she didn't know, Someone she didn't recognize, Someone she couldn't place, Someone she didn't remember, Arishok, Anders. She stood up, staring. Arishok, Anders. Arishok. The axe slipped from suddenly numb fingers, tumbling down the stairs with a metallic clatter and the hint of sparks. Arishok.

She spun, launching herself up the stairs for the man, eyes wild and desperate, " _Arishok!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And that was when I started strangling the author, your honor..._


	32. Temple of Mythal

Dorian hissed in a breath between clenched teeth and screwed his face up, "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Yes," Bull replied, "And if you hold still, it won't hurt as badly."

The mage huffed a breath of air, looking over his shoulder to give the qunari a wounded glare, "Don't we have professionals for this kind of thing?"

"Yes," Bull answered, again, in the exact same tone of voice, "But they're all busy. Been a long day." He reached around to give the mage's chest a pat, "Don't worry, I'm sure you can find something to do with the blood."

Dorian sputtered in offense and looked away, his eye falling on the Commander, taking reports and organizing the clean up. He put on his best lascivious smile, "My dear commander… Are you really going to let the ben hassrath spy sew up a valued and -- might I add -- remarkably handsome companion such as myself? You should really know better than to trust a Qunari with needle and thread around a mage."

"Former," Cullen answered without ever looking up and thus completely wasting a perfect blushing opportunity. He shuffled papers, instead, "Would you prefer Sera did it?"

The mage glanced over at the elf who was standing at the edge of the camp, watching the temple, one hand stuffed down the back of her pants, scratching her own ass. He shuddered delicately, earning him a soft snort of laughter from the Qunari with the needle in his shoulder.

He sighed and settled back down, staring past Sera with a disgruntled look. It wasn't so bad. The mercenary was surprisingly gentle with those big hands. Probably from all the back-stabbing performed on helpless mages like himself. "We should be in there," he declared suddenly, and the qunari twisted his lips in annoyed agreement.

"To be fair," the commander replied, handing new order off to a scout and turning back to look at the three, "Sera did recommend setting the Temple of Mythal on fire with everyone locked inside."

Dorian gave a slightly undignified snort, "Oh come, now. Sera suggested the same thing about Adamant. And Halamshiral. And the fade, for that matter."

"In front of Morrigan," the commander added.

"Oh, brilliant," he muttered, turning a baleful glare on the elf, "Really, Sera? Couldn't keep that one for the in group?"

Sera jerked a shoulder upward and spun to drop heavily next to the mage on the tree trunk, "Ahhh, who wants to go to some dead elfy temple, anyway. All oohs and aahs and weren't they grand?"

"Yeah," the qunari breathed in a long sigh as he tied the last knot and leaned close to cut the thread with his teeth, "Anything elven called the Well of Sorrows probably called for Solas, anyway."

Dorian drew himself up at the thought that Solas might be a better team member than he, "While I'll give you it's not as exciting as the Boudoir of Bunnies, it's still important. And we're still the team. He left the team here. We've been benched. Benchwarmers."

The qunari was silent for a long second before he stepped over the trunk and settled on Dorian's other side, the three of them staring off into the jungle dejectedly.

"I prefer to think of it as being an advisor," Cullen said softly, shifting his weight uncomfortably. The three of them just looked up at him with blank expressions and he sighed, dropping down next to Sera to join them in their trunk warming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to write a fic with nothing but what the team mates left behind get up to while the heroes are out saving the world.


	33. The Fourth Dragon

They were warming a trunk on an outcropping watching Solas, Vivienne, and Cole stand in a clearing in the distance who in turn were watching the Inquisitor and Morrigan doing something that couldn't quite be made out, up here in the nosebleed section when Dorian dropped the bomb.

"I saw Hawke, last night."

As with most bombs, it doesn't explode immediately. There's a pause. A second, a year, maybe time stops all together for everyone witnessing, and only in hindsight is it declared to have exploded at all. Dorian settled into the pause, watching a leaf twirl and flutter as it falls from a tree. As with all bombs, it's the eyeblink before someone declares it a dud that it does, in fact, spew fire. Or invective, in Sera's case.

"Fuck! Shit fuck what fuckin piss shitballs. Shit!" The elf turned an accusatory glare on Dorian, "I don't need to know that! Lady Hand Wavin is dead! Dead, right? That shite doesn't wash off with your…" she waved a hand in frustrated vocabulary searching, "Fuckin crap." She smacked her hands to her ears and went back to staring hard at the clearing, as if she hadn't heard anything, and didn't plan to.

Bull took the news, better. He shifted his weight, one hand twitching to the side, as if commenting on the higher meaning of the meaningless, "Dreamed of Hawke." It's a correction of wording. He glanced at the mage.

Dorian tilted his head to look sidelong up at the qunari, "In the fade."

Bull sucked on his teeth in thought before he shrugged, "Yeah, but… Ain't Solas always talking about memories? Seein all those things that happened played out by spirits and whatnot?"

Dorian hummed thoughtfully, his gaze going back to the clearing in the distance, "Maybe," he said softly.

"But you don't think so?"

The mage grimaced and shrugged as if unwilling to get into it before he sighed, "You know if Hawke and the Arishok ever…"

Bull's eyes widened, "You saw Hawke and the Arishok? You sure that wasn't a dream?"

Dorian huffed and flicked imaginary dirt from a sleeve, "I assure you, none of my dreams involve naked women. And I didn't see anything. It was just a flash, a glimpse, a couple of seconds of a really quite naked Champion of Kirkwall cuddling with the man she killed."

The qunari grunted, "There was cuddling." Dorian stared at him and he shrugged, "If she was naked during, well… I didn't hear about it." He was silent while the mage continued to gaze at him as if he were joking. Finally he arched a brow at the man and let his gaze slide down the mage's chest "You want a demonstration?"

Before Dorian could answer Sera suddenly burst to her feet, "A bloody dragon! They brought a bloody dragon! That's our bleedin dragon them crappy pants are fightin!"

Bull surged to his feet as well, "No! No, boss! Those guys aren't the dragon team! That's us! We're the… who's gonna steer that thing when it takes off?!"

The mage rubbed his eyes as Bull cried out in disbelief, shock, possibly even grief, "Sera, Bull… Seriously, one dragon isn't," his stopped dead when he opened his eyes, his hands clenching into white knuckled fists as he jumped to his feet between them, "You call that a lightning bolt?! My baby cousin throws better magic! Amateurs!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Dorian is _soooo_ that guy at the football game.


	34. Dawn

Dorian crouched next to the qunari's head, "I can't carry you, Bull."

"No. Don't imagine you can, Vint." Bull had his arms and legs splayed, staring at the dark sky.

The mage pretended to consider for a second before he shrugged, "Suppose I could get a couple of horses and some rope, drag you back to Skyhold by your horns."

Bull looked at him finally, a big smile appearing, "We killed Corypheus."

Dorian nodded slowly, pursing his lips, "We did."

"And the big dragon."

The mage laughed at that, dropping backwards to sit on the ground, "And that's the important part, yes? Who needs world peace, there are dragons to kill!"

Sera stumbled over, flushed with excitement and post-battle adrenaline. She dropped into a heap next to them and grinned just as big as the giant, "Broke Solas' elfy ball. Think he might cry."

Dorian narrowed his eyes, frowning, "Well. That's a shame."

She snorted, "Serves him right, tryin ta muck about with our dragons."

Bull waved a hand, laughing, "You're a vicious one, Sera. Knew I liked you for a reason."

The elf giggled, rolling onto her back and propping her head up on the qunari's shoulder, her legs kicked out in the opposite direction, bow dropped haphazardly to one side. Everyone was silent for a bit before Bull shifted slightly, "What now?"

"Now? Everyone goes home. Gets fat. Wasn't that the plan?"

The giant's grin faded and he moved his head slightly to look up at Dorian, "Yeah. Guess that works for the people that still got homes to go to."

He frowned, looking away from the Bull's gaze. People were gathering at the bottom of the stairs, excited for news. The inquisitor could deal with them, though, "Well. I suppose there are still dragons to be found."

"Gotta run out of those, eventually."

"Then we'll just have to start killing trolls," the mage countered with a smile.

"I'm gonna get me some'a that scout Harding. Fwuh. Bit with the short, but woof."

Bull laughed, "Have you ever even talked to her?"

Sera shrugged, unconcerned, "Plenty time for that, now, no more Corifypants."

Dorian watched as the Inquisitor descended the stairs into the waiting embrace of his loyal followers. He stifled a sigh and stretched, "Guess we got a celebration to get to." He made to stand up when Bull's large hand settled on his ankle. It wasn't a grip. He could easily continue on to join the others, but it held him just the same. Seconds passed before he settled back down to the stone. What was waiting for him at the celebration? More doe eyes and giggling between the Inquisitor and Josephine? He could go the rest of his life without that, thank you.

Sera waved a hand vaguely, her eyes closed, a soft 'pht' sound, "More fancy pants nobles and mind your manners, and no belching and table dancing? Don't even try, Miss Stuffy Mage'll get all with the glares and--" she cut off with a huge yawn, then just shrugged, shifting her head around to find a more comfortable bit of shoulder to use as a pillow.

Bull's hand released his ankle only to curl around his arm, pulling gently. The mercenary was looking at him. Maker. He cleared his throat and broke the gaze, looking away, "Completely undignified, this lying around on the battlefield" he muttered.

The qunari was still watching him, still pulling gently on his arm in invitation, "No one here but us savages."

Dorian snorted, "Speak for yourself," he said, but still didn't move away, letting the giant guide him down to the stone. He settled onto his back, his head and shoulders resting against the man's stomach. The big hand released him as he got comfortable, then settled on his chest, a weight both comforting and palpitation inducing.

In minutes, Sera was snoring softly and the large hand went limp. Bull's soft voice was distracted, half-asleep, "Dawn is coming."

The mage didn't answer, looking up at the slowly lightening sky before he closed his eyes, listening to the steady breathing of the mercenary. All three of them slept right through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I totally skipped the entire final battle. There was evil laughter and howling and snappy one liners, you know the drill.


	35. Honest Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like a cookie?

ARISHOK  
FENRIS  


The words were written -- carved directly into the flesh -- in big block letters up her forearms. Hawke traced the new scabs with her fingertips, a few of them loose, now, almost ready to fall off and reveal the new scars she would carry for the rest of her life. Death? Did scars even take, on a walking corpse?

Tentative nails slid up to the thick white braid tied around her wrist. She knew she'd lost something. Something, or someone she supposed, so important that she'd felt the need to score their name into her skin. Hawke didn't feel the loss, though, so much as an oppressive sense of disquiet. A foreboding sensation of some horrifying realization she had yet to have. She was waiting for grief, and it wasn't coming.

It was the other name, the one she still knew -- Fenris. That one hurt. She was going to lose him, too, and wouldn't even know enough to mourn his loss. She didn't want to exist in a world without his memory, and she wouldn't know that when it was gone.

"Maker's breath!"

Hawke dropped a hand to rest on the trusty axe resting next to her hip on the bench as she looked up. Cullen. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs in the empty courtyard, his back turned, his face bright red, or at least the bits she could see from this angle. He was protecting someone from her naked body. Her? No. Himself. As if the sight of her nipples would turn him to stone, and those were the only things visible if they weren't locked away, safely hidden. She sighed, "Fairly sure the first thing you ever saw was a naked woman."

That shocked a bark of laughter out of the commander and he shook his head, still not turning to look at her, "Yes and perhaps it scarred me for life, Serah." He shrugged out of his cloak, the long feathered one that reminded her far too keenly of Anders and held it out behind him, waving it about as if she were meant to rush down and take it, wear it, cover her dangerous nipples before she hurt somebody.

She knew, dimly, somewhere it the back of her head where that voice wouldn't stop screaming, that she should be mortified, or ashamed, or at the very least somewhat concerned about the state of her undress, but she hadn't been well acquainted with that bit of her head in some time. She stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles and tilted her head, watching the commander back up towards her, carefully climbing a couple of steps, still shaking that cloak at her. A bullfighter, heroically putting himself in the ring with naught but a scrap of cloth to protect him from… Hawke sighed softly and rubbed and ear.

He continued to back himself up the stairs, careful step by careful step, checking for the next one with his heel, before he found the top and gave a satisfied sigh. He might survive the nipples, after all. He shook the cloak at her again and she reached out to take it. He relaxed immediately as soon as it left his hand and nodded to himself. Hawke draped the cloak over the bench and left it there, "I know you're not Cullen," she said softly.

The man went still, his head twisting to one side, as if arrested in the process of turning to look at her, "Why would you say that, Red?"

"If Cullen were dead, he'd be in Kinloch Hold, with his own demons, not in Kirkwall, with mine."

The demon turned to face her, his head tilting. Nipples weren't fatal to demons. Interesting. He watched her, but didn't respond for a long moment before dropping forward to put a hand on the ground and lowering himself to sit at her feet, looking up at her, "And how do you know that?"

Hawke considered the question, glancing around at the plain stone walls, the water visible in the distance over the walls, "Educated guess," she replied finally before she looked back at him, taking a breath, "So? What are you? Desire? Pride?" Her hand tightened over the pink wrapped handle of the axe, "Fizzgig?"

He glanced at the axe, but didn't pay it any mind, just leaning forward to rest a couple of fingertips on her ankle, "What do you want me to be?"

"How about honest?"

The demon just smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breaths.
> 
> Breath in...
> 
> Breath out...


	36. Fenris

For all the elf looked genuinely pleased to have been insulted by Vivienne, Dorian didn't get the feeling that was a warm smile. The mage felt it, when the next Divine cast the spell, but whatever effect it was supposed to have just fizzled off the elf's skin in a wash of blue-white light. This was getting interesting.

Dorian set his glass of rum down. Yes, he was drinking rum mid morning. No, he wasn't ashamed. The elf's smile only grew as he walked closer, and Vivienne's eyebrow slid farther up her forehead. There was a shout, a sudden commotion, and several nobles scattered as Varric suddenly threw himself between the elf and the lady mage, his arms out as if he was protecting Vivienne. Who in the blazes could make the dwarf think Vivienne needed protecting?

"Wait!" The dwarf paused, his face going through a whole mess of emotions before settling on abject misery and he dropped his hands, "You can't kill her, Broody."

Absolutely fascinating. Dorian stood up, knocking the chair backward with a scrape in the silence that followed. He swept forward and fluttered his best courtly bow at the elf, "Allow me to present the next Divine, formerly Vivienne, I believe she's to be called Victoria, now. I am Dorian, of House Pavus. And you might be…?"

The elf's eyes travelled from Varric, up to Vivienne as she was introduced, then snapped over to Dorian, narrowing, smile still firmly in place, "Fenris." A short pause, "Former property of House Aegrus."

Oh. Dorian stood up straight, his smile fading as his brows pinched together, "I…" He glanced at Varric, who still looked miserable, then back up, "I'm…"

Iron Bull stepped in from the other side, saving Dorian from himself, "Basilit-an was…" He tilted his head and smiled sadly, "Ataashi. We share your loss."

The elf glanced at the qunari, his smile fading before he shook his head, "No. You don't." He looked back at Varric, seeming to dismiss the rest of them, "Where is Rutherford?"

Varric stopped looking dismayed long enough to look confused, "Cullen? He's…" the dwarf shook his head, looking around.

"The Commander is with his troops," the Inquisitor said from the doorway to the gardens, walking in with Josephine and Morrigan on his heel. Someone must have sent a runner to track them down. He gave the elf a sympathetic smile, "Hawke was a hero. If there's anything at all I can do--"

"I'm only here for the phylactery."

The Inquisitor blinked, his eyes going to Vivienne. Morrigan arched a brow, coming out from behind him and examining the elf, still walking towards him. Varric's face crumbled and he took a shaking breath, "Fenris… Hawke… She's…"

Fenris shook his head, giving Varric a hard, determined look, "I'm going after her, Varric."

The dwarf ducked his head to hide the sudden appearance of tears from the onlookers, wiping furiously at his eyes while he cursed under his breath, "Maker, Fenris, you can't just…"

"I'm going after her, Varric," the elf repeated, his voice softer now, but no less determined. He turned back to the Inquisitor, "He's in the yard, then?" At the silent nod of the qunari, Fenris turned on his heel and walked back towards the door without another word. Morrigan followed him at a respectful distance, still looking thoughtful.

The great hall was silent and still for a couple of seconds before Dorian cleared his throat, "What he's suggesting is suicide."

"You think he doesn't know that?" Varric was smiling through his tears, a bitter, humorless laugh accompanying the look. He shook his head and followed the elf, Iron Bull falling into step at his side. Another second and Dorian was hurrying to catch up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funnier if you imagine them all talking like chipmunks.
> 
> Special thanks to Kaltenzahn for suggesting the name for Danarius' house.


	37. Masks

The air was thick with tension. Dorian found his gaze not on the two men, but sliding towards the qunari spy, wanting assurance that he wasn't imagining things. Bull arched a brow at him and tilted his head a little as if to say it was what it was. Yes, there was decidedly non-verbal communication happening between Fenris and Cullen.

They'd missed him in the yard, then caught up with him in his office, the four of them crowding in behind Fenris, Varric nervous, Bull and Dorian calm but apprehensive, Morrigan, oddly, hadn't seen a thing past the elf, who she was still staring at.

Fenris was ignoring them all in favor of the silent, unspoken words exchanged with the former templar. Awkward moments passed before Cullen set down the parchment he'd been reading on the desk and took a breath, "Fenris, I--"

"Wherever you are." The elf's voice was soft but carried a hard edge, a blade still sheathed but wielded. Cullen looked up at him, falling silent again as a second passed before the elf continued, "I'll take care of you, Red. Wherever you are."

The muscle in the commander's jaw jumped and his lips twisted bitterly, "And where were you? Where were you when she could have used help?"

"I didn't know!" The elf was baring his teeth now at the commander, storming towards the desk and dropping his pack on top of it to lean forward, "If I had known, if anyone had thought to tell me, she'd still be here!"

"And you wouldn't!" Fenris and Cullen finally noticed the other people in the room when Varric yelled, the elf turning, both of them staring now at the dwarf who spread his hands imploringly at them, "Don't you get it? She didn't tell you because she knew. She knew you'd die protecting her. She knew you'd do this. Throw yourself on her…" He took an unsteady breath, sucking in air and trying to calm himself, "On her pyre. She didn't want this."

The anger slowly bled out of the elf, the tight muscles in his shoulders releasing. He looked down at the floor for a moment before taking a breath, his voice going back to the polite disinterest it had been when speaking to the Inquisitor, "The phylactery, Commander Rutherford."

Cullen's hand drifted towards his chest before forming into a fist that he set very carefully against his desk, "Fenris, I know how you--"

"Don't." The elf's eyes narrowed at the templar, a warning, "You don't know how I--"

"You weren't the only one that loved her!"

Silence. Dorian looked back at Bull, who was just nodding to himself as if at confirmation of something he'd already put together. The man really needed to share all this juicy gossip he kept figuring out before it became gossip.

Fenris tilted his head at the commander before he opened the top of his pack and pulled out a box. He flipped it upside down over the desk, the top falling off, followed by braids. Black, white, grey. The only color the blonde one, shining golden in the sunlight streaming through the window. Varric flinched and turned away, Cullen just stared at them. Bull's eyes widened and he took a couple of silent steps forward, hand reaching for the pile, long fingers stroking over them.

Fenris glanced at the qunari's hand but didn't stop him, just looking up at the nonplussed expression on the former templar, "Did you, Rutherford? Did you love her? Or did you just love the easy smile and damnable charm?" A long pause before he drove his point home, "You fell in love with a phantom. A glamour. I mask she wore to protect her from," a vicious smile formed and spread slowly across his full lips, "People like us."

Cullen's face got tighter, more lined, his lip curling up in a more obvious snarl as the elf spoke before the last word hit him like a dagger to the gut. All the air went out of his lungs and he dropped down into his chair, staring at the elf, "It wasn't all a mask…" he murmured, a flash of shame twisting his features before he shook his head. He reached into his shirt, pulling out a small velvet bag on a leather cord around his neck, pulling it off and dropping it onto the desk next to the pile of hair, "It won't do you any good, Fenris. It's dark. She's dead."

"Not necessarily," Morrigan suddenly spoke into the quiet that followed that statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this urge to write a 1950s housewife guide satire about being a warewolf mate off Derek/Stiles from Teen Wolf. It's hilarious, in my head. I blame Ao3.


	38. Morrigan Takes Charge

"The problem with forbidden magics," Morrigan continued, stepping past the elf to snatch the velvet bag from the desk. She held it up by the leather strap, watching it twirl lazily as if to divine some great secret from it, "Is that the people bidden to use the forbidden rarely know how it works." Her eyes slid past the velvet to settle on the former templar, "Tell me, Commander, did it ever occur to you that the largest practitioner of blood magic was the chantry?"

It was obvious by the thin-lipped frown he was giving her that it hadn't and she just nodded, "No, I imagine not." She jerked her hand upward to catch the velvet bag and closed her delicate fingers around it before she turned from Cullen to catch Fenris in her intense stare, "Lyrium, yes? May I?"

It was Fenris' turn to frown at her, this time in confusion before she raised a hand, fingertips hovering inches from his neck. The elf narrowed his eyes, pulling his chin back and staring at her with suspicion, but he didn't move away. She gave him an odd sort of secretive smile before brushing her knuckles over the man's chin and down, causing the markings to blaze a sudden blue white. He hissed in what sounded like pain and jerked away from her touch.

His hand went to the hilt of the large sword strapped to his back but he didn't draw it, and Morrigan looked entirely unconcerned, staring at her hand where the blue glow still played along her fingertips. The mage snapped her fingers, causing the glow to dissipate in a flash of white flame, then put the tips in her mouth, sucking one, then the other, like the elf was a delicious, if slightly greasy meal. She certainly had everyone's attention now, and she smiled again, "You are a treasure, aren't you?"

She didn't wait for an answer, sweeping past the elf with a wave of her hand, "Come along." She brushed the door open and kept walking without a look back, simply expecting to be followed. Follow her they did, scurrying along in her wake as she continued talking, "Phylacteries only work in the same plane as the person's soul. If we had a body, a dark phylactery would be a good indicator that the person's soul is no longer inside." She flashed an indecipherable look at Dorian, "Alas, we lack a body, yes?"

She opened the door to the tower, striding through with barely a glance at the murals Solas had painted on the walls before turning towards the great hall. She didn't wait for Dorian to answer, either, "Getting into the fade is easy. The inquisitor has proven quite adept at opening a rift large enough to tumble into. T'is getting back out that rubs. Inquisitor!" She stopped in the middle of the room, looking up at the throne where the qunari was lounging, Josephine dawdling on his knee, "I require a demonstration."

She turned, walking towards the garden as if she expected him to simply follow as well. She made it two steps before she slowed to a stop and gave a soft sigh that only the men clustered around her would hear before she turned again with a smile, "As it please your grace." She held a hand up, motioning towards the door to the gardens. The order morphed into an invitation that easily.

For as long as Adaar had been the Inquisitor, there was still a merc inside who couldn't help but preen under the attention of nobles, or their enchanters. He stood, setting Josephine down with her giggling and him sneaking a kiss on her cheek -- Dorian was surprised when the expected twinge of jealousy didn't materialize -- and smiled back at Morrigan, walking past her out into the gardens with the rest of them falling into line behind.

As the group entered, the garden started to empty. Since Corypheus had torn up bits of mountain to get at the people standing atop, the servants and agents hadn't quite been comfortable hanging around when the Inquisitor and a group of advisors and companions were walking about with purpose. Soon they were alone, standing in the middle of the path, and the Inquisitor turned to Morrigan, his head tilted in curiosity.

She took several large steps back, her entourage of fascinated men stumbling backwards to keep behind her, "A rift, if you please." She held a hand up to indicate the empty space she just made. Bull, Cullen and Varric loosened weapons and moved forward. Dorian stayed back with the confused looking elf.

The inquisitor just stared at her for a moment before he shrugged and went about tearing a hole into the fade. Morrigan held a hand out to stop Fenris as he moved forward to engage the sudden appearance of demons. She didn't even look up as Bull and the Commander corralled the small group away from them and Varric started poking holes.

The mage opened the velvet bag, letting the vial of blood slid out into her palm, "Watch carefully, now," she said softly to the elf before she walked forward, passing a shade without a second glance to stand under the rift. She lifted her arm, holding the phylactery out into the swirling green chaos of the rift. It lit up as soon as it had passed the entrance and she looked back at the elf with what seemed her first genuine smile of the day.

She stepped back and nodded at the Inquisitor. They finished up the group of demons before he closed the hole again. She held out the phylactery to Fenris, "Your little bird lives. Congratulations."

"Dragon," Fenris murmured as he reached out to take the vial with shaking hands, "She's a dragon." He was staring at the now black blood, almost panting. A second passed before he finally looked up at her, "You said getting out was the hard part."

Morrigan's gaze flickered to Dorian before she looked back, her smile turning sad, "How comfortable are you with Tevinter mages causing you pain?"

"What?" The elf asked.

"What?" Dorian repeated.

Morrigan spread her hands, "Vivienne is going to Val Royeaux to become Divine. Solas has vanished, and I have my own things to do. That leaves…" She trailed off, looking at Dorian.

Dorian shifted uncomfortably as the elf turned a heated stare on him. Then swallowed when Bull and Varric walked closer, watching him as well, "I… I was going to…" Bull set a large hand on his chest and he exhaled forcefully, "Rescue Hawke. Of course. Can't very well steal her title of best dressed mage in Thedas if she isn't in Thedas, can I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The required exposition chapter. It expositions. Included a West Wing walk and talk, free of charge.


	39. Cleaning up Cullen's Mess

"Moderation. That's what we need. More spirits of moderation. Even when they go bad, they're still not gonna hurt anything." Hawke waved a hand at Cullen, "You should look into that. A moderation demon? I'd totally sleep with that guy. All the naughty, none of the scars."

The demon smirked at her, watching intently as she waded into the fountain and started washing off the accumulated dust and rust colored flecks of dried blood dotting her skin, "No, you wouldn't. You're trying to goad me into saying something that will reveal my nature."

Hawke stood up straight and looked back at him, her brows raised in surprise, "Awfully straight forward for a demon of…" she trailed off, her lips quirking upwards in unspoken challenge.

"Truth?"

Hawke gave him a disbelieving look and went back to her washing, "Truth is a virtue."

Cullen laughed at her, leaning back on his seat on the edge of the fountain, "Only in moderation."

Hawke stopped rubbing at her legs and instead sat down in the water, letting it rush past her waist on it's way to the drainage one level down. She gave the demon a narrow eyed considering look, "Is that the difference between spirit and demon? Moderation?"

He just shrugged at her and let the conversation lapse. She let it go for a second before trying something else, "You know, wearing the face of the guy that promised to kill me if I ever got possessed? Probably not the best choice."

Cullen arched a brow, "On the contrary. Our beloved commander has many tantalizing facets I would love to explore with you," his lips widened into a smile, "I'm thinking of taking him, next. Perhaps I'll let you have him, first, if you please me."

"So arrogant, assuming you'll be able to take me."

"Darling girl," he murmured, tilting his head at her in an almost pitying way, "I already have." She was speechless and staring at him for long enough that he stood up, another lazy smile, pulling his gauntlets off, "Did you know you're not the first mage he fell in love with?"

Hawke just blinked at him before looking around the square, the nameless crowds walking by in their endless circles, discussing their unchanging topics. She barely noticed the demon divesting himself of the rest of the commander's armor until he waded into the pool naked and settled into the water against the wall, as if they were sharing a public bath.

"Sweet, naïve thing, name of Amell." He furrowed his brows at her, "That's your mother's family name, isn't it?" He waved a hand as if it didn't truly matter, "She got caught trying to help a blood mage escape, thrown in a cell, died there when Uldred took over the tower." He gave her a small smile, "Still wondering where she'd gone wrong, poor thing. Truly, the world lost a precious soul, that day."

Hawke didn't look at him, her head swiveling to follow the flow of people, her brows drawing together. She blinked quickly, letting the first tears wash down her cheeks.

He leaned back, slouching down into the water and resting his head against the wall, watching her with half lidded eyes, "The things he did to her… Over and over and over… For days in that little cell…" His gaze slid down her neck to her chest, the hips hidden under the water, "He's been ruining novices for a very long time. And there I am to pick up the pieces. Put them back together. Occupy the emptiness he left behind."

At her quiet sob his expression changed into concern and sympathy, crawling towards her with a predatory air regardless of what his face was trying to convey, "Oh, baby girl. Don't cry. I'll make you whole again," one hand reached out and slid gentle fingertips down the back of her arm, "Wash you clean and fill you till you overflow." His hands slid up over her shoulders to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing softly at the tears, "Slide into all those desolate places. Spill," he kissed her jaw softly, "Stream," his lips moved to her chin, "Surge into the void inside you," he stopped, his lips poised a shadows-breadth away from hers.

"Fizzgig," she breathed as if afraid to give voice to the name.

His lips brushed hers, light as as promise unspoken as he answered, "Yes, precious thing?"

"Am I still falling?"

He pulled back just far enough to give her that slow, million-dollar-question smile. So proud, he was so proud of her, "It's okay," he whispered, "I'll catch you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show of hands, who's actually rooting for Fizzgig?


	40. Fizzgig

There was a moment. A split second when Hawke leaned into the demon, the brush of her nipples against the stolen chest of the ex templar, a sigh, warm breath brushing down her neck. It would be easy. So very easy. She could feel it, pulsing like the heat of arousal in her groin, the demon lapping at her soul like gentle water. She would never be afraid, again. She would never be alone, again. That awful, aching abyss in her chest where Fenris was supposed to fit, the demon could fill that. He could be her solid ground, her strong arms, her private, hidden sanctuary where the world would never find her. All she had to do was let go, and he would catch her.

Her hand scrabbled in the shallow water of the fountain, brushing over the tiles. Her voice was nearly lost in the sound of the square, a pathetic whimper filled with longing, "Fizzgig…"

The demon's hands slid over her face, into her hair, fingertips kneading at her scalp, urging her closer, to close the distance, to bridge that tiny little gap, that one last meaningless step. His voice wasn't Cullen's anymore. It was deeper, resonant, all black velvet and shiny metal, "Yes, little one. Come to me," strong hands rubbed down the back of her neck, squeezing, promising, "You're so cold, my sweet. So cold," tempting fingertips traced circles over her shoulders and back towards her spine, "Let me hold you. I can keep you warm. Warm and weightless and wrapped up. Forever."

The lightest of touches, teasing over the curve of her breasts, down her sides, one fingertip tracing the same circle, over and over, against her navel, "I can feel the flutter, baby girl. They call them butterflies, but they're ants, aren't they? Ants swarming, tickling, tingling, gathering. Waiting," the fingertip trailed down, brushing through the curls of her pubic hair, "For me, lovely thing. Waiting for me to release them, wash them away in a wave of heat," That fingertip. That single, Maker-be-damned fingertip. It slid ever-so-gently into her folds, finding her clit, beckoning her hips closer with slow, barely-there strokes, "Pulling that knot so tight. Tense and taut and twitching. Until it snaps. Let me sooth you, soft little thing, let me taste you."

Hawke found the axe.

She exploded into motion, swinging it over her shoulder in a vicious arc that sliced through the air where the demon had been with a whistle, a splash, the blade cracking the tiles as it impacted the bottom of the fountain. Hawke leapt to her feet, holding the weapon ready, looking around.

A soft laugh from above her and she backed up, eyes tracking up to the top of the fountain, where Cullen crouched, smiling at her, "Is that a no?"

Hawke tilted her head, a shudder passing over her back. He was still naked, his cock engorged, hanging heavy between well-defined thighs, and she _wanted._ She wanted so badly. Her hand tightened on the handle of her weapon, "Come down from there, love," she murmured, "Give us a kiss."

The demon laughed again, delighted, his eyes sparkled at her. He wanted, too. He shifted his weight to the other leg, giving her a better view as one hand slid down, palming his length and pressing it to his thigh where he rubbed it lazily, "I do so love your fire, precious thing, the way you tease me."

She held her arms out to her sides, offering, "You got the chest. You know how much I love the big chest." She smiled, a brutal, bloodthirsty thing, "Not even oozing, this time."

He slid forward to drop to his knees on the edge of the highest tier of the fountain, putting his hands on the lip and leaning towards her. He wasn't smiling anymore, "You test my self control, darling girl."

Hawke didn't think she was imagining the fangs where his incisors should have been, and she certainly wasn't dreaming up the long, dagger-length claws now scraping over the stone. She took another step back, suddenly unsure, looking around as if to catalog exits.

He slid closer, arms lengthening, bulking out, the skin darkening, crawling down the fountain towards her, "And I have so little to begin with."

The demon launched himself at her, and Hawke fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on yesterday's straw poll I can now say unequivocally that none of you (with the possible exception of Sneer) should ever try demon summoning.
> 
> And that this chapter will get that old blood pumping. A gift. From me to you.


	41. Appearances

They'd built a fire. Well, they piled up some fade stuff -- broken furniture and bits of shrubs -- and Dorian had made it burn, but it was a fire. It didn't get dark here, and it didn't get cold, but no one had questioned if they needed a fire. They just made one. It was the only comfortingly routine thing since they'd set off on this suicide quest, this morning.

The mage himself was not currently partaking. Rather, he stood near the edge of the little thrown together camp and looked out into the… wilderness? It was difficult to describe it as such, since while there were shapes that could be trees, and blades of long grass undulating in a non-existent breeze, there were also stools, statuary, book shelves, even a wood fire stove scattered about in random places.

Dorian pressed his lips together when the former spy appeared at his side. Bull didn't say anything, but he didn't actually need to. Dorian could guess the entire argument and every perfectly logical reason why the qunari should win it. In the end, however, he wasn't in camp fondling the lyrium-etched elf because he didn't want to, and Bull probably knew that, too.

A moment passed before the mage could stand the silence no longer and hissed at the qunari softly, "Did you see how Morrigan reacted? Morrigan. The person who thinks the rest of humanity should be charged a tax for daring to breathe in her presence?"

One corner of Bull's lip twitched upward but all he said was, "She doesn't think that, but I catch your meaning."

"She wanted to lick him like a lollypop. There was definite finger sucking."

The former spy seemed to consider that, shifting his weight, one hand flexing outward like it always did when he was thinking. Finally he shrugged, "I'd lick him like a lollypop and I have no use for lyrium."

Dorian raised a hand, gesturing, "So you see the problem. One simple practice session, a perfectly normal biological reaction, and I'm suddenly the embodiment of," he paused, throwing his hands up as if there were no words for something this bad, "Everything. And I saw house Aegrus, before Denarius went and got himself killed. That man did not have a house full of pretty slaves by accident."

The mage flushed in anticipation of the suggestive comment surely to follow that, but it never came. Bull just rumbled a soft hum from his chest and raised a hand to run large fingers through the hair at the back of Dorian's neck comfortingly. A moment passed before he replied, "Pull this side of your coat further to the front and hang to the other side. Your pants are tight enough it won't be noticeable under the flappy robes."

The mage stared at him for a moment before he looked away again, "Why am I not surprised that you know where I hang?" The qunari just shrugged and Dorian shook his head, adjusting himself and arranging his surcoat to cover his crotch better. The done he huffed a hard exhale, wringing his hands together, "That's it? You not going to remind me of your terms for kissing?"

Bull smiled at that, "I might, if I thought you'd ever forget."

The Vint grunted, rubbing his palms over the front of his thighs nervously, "Incorrigible."

The qunari's large hand slid down his back to pat him gently on the opposite hip, "Go on. There's a lollypop back there that needs licking."

Dorian groaned and closed his eyes before pulling away, "Not helping, Bull. Not helping at all."

Bull shrugged at him again, still grinning, "I'll help later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't be involved in the supernatural, either. I don't even like Teen Wolf, and I find Peter Hale far too sexy for anyone's good.
> 
> Seriously. It's not a great show, and they spend far too much time focusing on the two most boring, insipid characters anyone's ever written, and there I am, thinking of watching it again because I can't get enough of lurking Peter.
> 
> Fuck.


	42. Not Friends

"So… Here's an idea. Let's _not_ release a whole bunch of lyrium fueled magic until we actually have to in order to leave," Varric said in a conversational tone. He had Bianca out, pointed at the only entrance to the cave where a single barrier spell stood between them and a small legion of demons.

Retching sounds were the only answer. Dorian was in the back of the cave, bent double, pale and shaking, trying to force his stomach up his own throat. Bull was pacing back and forth, watching the horde of spirits mill about outside. Fenris had slumped down against a wall and was now just beginning to look put together enough to help fight. He used the rock at his back to force himself to his feet with a groan, "That was… Unexpected."

"Broody, master of the understatement."

"We get back to Skyhold, I am going to beat that woman bloody." It wasn't a statement, so much as a moan. Dorian spit, then collapsed backwards, staring up at the ceiling, still shivering and muttering, "Strangle her with her own entrails."

"Could be worse," Bull said, stopping his pacing to look outside, "Could still be out there with them." One hand waved to indicate the host waiting outside. Their fire was still burning, some hundred yards or so from the entrance, but the camp had been overrun with shades.

Fenris shoved off the wall to stand on his feet again, though his massive sword still hung limply from a hand. He stumbled to a small rock outcropping towards the center and settled down on top, watching the white-blue shimmer of the barrier that had taken most of the magic Dorian had pulled from him, "When the mage recovers, we keep moving."

"The mage," Dorian replied, panting, "Does not plan to recover."

A short grunt from the Qunari, "You assume we'll be able to fight our way past…" He stopped talking and narrowed his eyes.

"What is it?" Dorian started trying to pull himself upright.

"All the shades and wisps just vanished," Bull said softly, leaning close to the barrier to look around outside. He whistled and took a step back, pointing to indicate a large pride demon, "I think the sharks are arriving."

"Andraste's tits," Varric muttered, moving quickly to help Fenris to his feet while Dorian still struggled to get mobile.

Bull took a step back, but stayed in the opening, a wall between the demon and the rest of the group. More of the horde slipped away as the massive beast moved closer.

It stopped a short distance from the barrier, bending to look inside. It smiled at the qunari, though it's eyes were all for Dorian, who had made it to a wall and was now trying vainly to stay standing on legs that didn't seem to have the strength to hold him, "Not getting through that. May as well…" He waved a hand, breathing heavily and trying to catch his breath, "Go find… Morrigan, yeah. Go find her. You two will get along," he underscored the next word with a sharp hand motion, "Famously."

The pride demon roared and hammered both hand against the barrier, causing sparks to fly the light coming off it visibly dimming. Dorian blinked. There was a long pause, no one moving, staring the strained barrier.

"Five sovereigns on Morrigan," Bull said, suddenly.

Varric arched a brow at that, "Are you nuts? Look at him, he's huge!"

The qunari snorted, "I'm huge. He's all puffed up hot air and dreams. Ephemeral, that's what they call that."

"Is this really the time--" Dorian started before getting talked over.

"That's an awfully large word for a merc," Varric shot back, leaving Fenris' side when the elf managed to stay upright, pulling his sword from upright from the ground.

"Let him have the mage. One less Magister I'll have to kill later," the elf said suddenly, nodding at Dorian and taking a couple of steps his direction.

"Me?!" Dorian struggled to stay standing, "You're the one with all the power!" He waved a hand at the demon, "It's the lyrium, my good man, he's the one you want!"

"If you think for a second I'm letting you give Fenris to that thing--" Varric roared.

"He wanted to come by himself anyway, why not let him--" Bull interrupted.

"A vint, Bull! You're siding with a Vint!" Varric was yelling, now.

Bull rounded on Dorian, "That's right. Thought your fluttering eyelashes would distract me from--"

"One more step, you qunari beast, and I will drop that barrier and feed you to him!" The four men didn't seem to notice that the barrier was already down, broken by a second pounding. The demon couldn't quite squeeze into the entrance, but seemed content to wait for them to hand someone over.

Fenris launched himself on unsteady legs towards the mage, "Enough arguing, give him the mage."

"No!" Dorian pushed off the wall, falling towards the elf more than attacking. Bull rushed forward, getting a hand around his arm before he face-planted into the rock. Rather than help, though, he swung the mage around, pushing him towards the demon.

Fenris collided with Dorian on his wild stumble towards the demon, grappling at the mage before getting a hold of his arms, "Down!"

Bull and Varric dropped on command, arms protecting their heads and yelling as the cave ignited in an inferno of white hot fire. The air itself screamed, the rock rumbling underfoot, there was a screech, roaring wind, dirt and small rocks tumbled down from the ceiling to bounce off the two men before the shaking stopped.

A second before they raised their heads to look over. The pride demon, along with the remains of the horde were missing, gone as if they'd never really existed. Dorian and the elf were crumpled to the ground, their arms still around each other. Thankfully, still breathing.

Fenris coughed, "This does not make us friends, mage."

Dorian just nodded, "I shall have to pine from afar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading a fic today in which the heroine comes upon the hero choking a man out in an alley, then kidnapping him. She does not call the police. Or even think to call the police. The whole thing is just sort of dropped.
> 
> And no one else appeared to notice. So now I'm thinking I'm the weird one, right? Awkward.


	43. Pride

Fenris was dangling, waving back and forth as the rope bends and sways. He was a quarter of the way out over the break, clinging to the rope with hands and legs as he worked his way over to the other island. Varric was already on the other side, resting on the edge watching the elf's progress. No one would ask why he needed a grappling hook attachment for his crossbow, anymore, though he would probably look smug for the rest of the trip.

Dorian chewed on his lip, watching the slow progress with concern. Thankfully, once the elf and Bull were accross, all he would have to do is knot the rope around himself, jump off the side, and let the other three pull him up. Somehow, that seemed safer to him. Perhaps that was his latent death wish talking.

"We can't have a relationship," he said before going still. His eyes rounded in surprise and he coughed suddenly. He'd been thinking that for weeks, now, and there it had just slithered out of his mouth without warning. And now he was stuck, having said it, unable to take it back. There wasn't any walking that one back, and it couldn't be spun. At least, not for Bull. With someone else, the mage could probably have saved that, snatched it back from the edge, twisted it around to not mean what it so obviously meant. But with Bull? Fat chance of that.

The qunari didn't answer him right away. Didn't turn his head to look at him, his head tilted as he watched Fenris, arms crossed over his massive chest. His eyebrow didn't twitch upwards, he didn't even blink. He just stood there, still and silent for a long moment before he finally sucked in a breath, "That so?"

The mage exhaled forcefully, his fingers intertwining around his staff as if he needed the support. No running away, now. The only way out of this was through it. He nodded firmly, his lips pinching tight, "Obviously," he said, his voice brooking no argument. He shrugged one shoulder upward awkwardly, completely destroying the air of certainty, "I need discretion, and you're about as discreet as a chantry boy in his first bordello."

The former spy laughed at him. Loudly. So loudly, Fenris paused in his traverse of the break to twist around and look back at them. Dorian covered his face with a palm and shook his head, "As if to prove my point for me," he muttered under his breath.

The elf, seemingly deciding an attack of demons was not imminent went back to his climbing. Bull just raised a hand to squeeze the mage's shoulder before his roaring settled into a soft chuckle, then faded to the hint of warmth in his deep voice, "Discretion," he said the word slowly, as if tasting it, pulling it apart with his teeth. He shook his head, "No. Discretion is what Tevinter needs. What your family needs. I don't think that's what you need."

Dorian narrowed his eyes, finally dragging his gaze from the elf to give the qunari a look that fair dripped of disdain, "And you know better than I what I need?"

"Not better. Just maybe more honest." Bull glanced at him, calm, sure in his stance.

The mage spread his hands before settling them back against his staff, "Well, please. You're the ben hassrath spy. Enlighten me."

Bull did finally arch a brow at that, considering the other man for a long minute before he shrugged, "Okay," he said, "You need scandal."

"Scandal," the mage repeated slowly, disbelief in every line of his face.

The qunari nodded, "Scandal," he repeated, "You need too much information, blushing nobles, and ladies having fits of vapors." He looked at Dorian again, his eyes dark, "You need someone who'll look your father in the eye and smile while they grind you into a weak, gasping climax in the middle of the waltz at a ball. You need a lover that's monumentally pleased, unbearably smug, and utterly shameless in the face of rumor, innuendo, and scorn." His lips curled upward slowly into a satisfied smirk, "You need someone who is so fucking _proud_ ," the word was spit, fierce and uncompromising, "to have you wrapped around their cock that they crow it from the rooftops."

Bull turned again to watch the elf as he made his way the last few feet to the other island and pulled himself up onto the rock next to Varric. Dorian just stared at him, speechless, sucker punched, the shock knocking the wind from his lungs. A pause before the former spy finished in a soft voice, "You need everyone that ever looked at you in contempt to see you joyful, heedless, in love and loved." Another pause, the mercenary tilting his head, "Breathe, Vint."

Dorian gasped on command and looked away, blinking rapidly and swallowing mouthfuls of the dusty, sour tasting air. He ducked his head, lifting a hand to swipe at unbidden tears that threatened to ruin his already dubious composure. A large hand settled, tender and serene, against his back. A handprint made of heat and light between his shoulderblades. It took a moment for the mage to scrape back together his dignity like a tattered cloak. He stood up straight and cleared his throat, "And you think you can be that?"

Bull dropped his hand, the moment of weakness passing entirely unremarked by either of them. He shrugged, grinning, "Like a chantry boy in his first bordello."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick, and then my air conditioner crapped out and every HVAC guy in the city is double booked. It's been a bad week for Drama. I apologize if you found yourself bereft.
> 
> In other news, I had another crazy idea. AmericanMcGee!Alice/Jareth. Another ship I'd like to go down on.


	44. The Hunt

Hawke darted into the alley and stopped, throwing her back against the lip, the axe held upright in a white-knuckled grip. She held her breath, eyes glued to the corner. There, underneath the footsteps, the distant mumbling of the market, the everyday sounds of low town that were easy to tune out -- the movement of something heavy. The soft tapping of talons against stone, the animal breathing, half growl. The sounds of her pursuit. She took a half step back from the edge, hefting the axe, waiting.

"The hunt is always the best part." Cullen's voice was soft against her ear, his breath hot on her neck.

Hawke spun, lashing out. The former templar didn't dodge. He made no attempt to avoid the axe, just leaning, relaxed and arrogant against the wall behind her as the axe passed right through him and clanged off the stone in a flash of sparks. She nearly dropped the weapon as she stumbled back, away from the vision, her eyes flickering between it and the beast still crashing through the market towards her alley.

"So angry," he cooed at her, like she were the tiniest of kittens attacking the thread he dangled in front of her. Like she was adorable. Like she was so far from being a threat that provoking her was entertainment. She dismissed the trick, turning to sprint down the alley away from her failed ambush.

She made turns blindly, moving farther into the maze of stalls and the haphazard litter of unplanned streets and ramshackle buildings. Around every corner, through every intersection, Cullen was waiting for her. He sprawled on countertops, crouched on rooftops, leaned on the side of wooden stalls, smiling, watching her with half-lidded eyes.

Hawke ignored them all, slowing to a walk and tilting her head as she slunk between two stalls, listening for the tell-tale tapping of claws, the half-growled breaths, the heavy footsteps. The former templar slid into step next to her, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight, shoulders back, the perfect military man, "Have you considered a frontal assault?" As if the question were a random, passing thought, "The thought of you, raising that axe over your head, charging headlong into the fray, with a shrill little war cry…" He inhaled a soft, shuddering breath, his eyes slitting in bliss, "So good."

She turned on her heel and stalked back the other direction. He didn't attempt to follow her. He didn't need to. As soon as she rounded the corner, there he was again, waiting to fall in at her side. He trailed her through the warren, hungry eyes slithering over her back, soft pink tongue wetting his lips, "If Fenris could only see you now, except…" He held up a hand, his head tilting, listening for something before a slow smile spread over his face, "He's gone now, isn't he? Slipped away while you weren't looking." He frowned at her, mock concern painting his features, "Poor thing. All alone, now."

Hawke's feet slowed fractionally, her brows furrowing and lines appearing on her forehead. Only a moment before she shook her head. Time to consider what the demon was talking about, later. For now…

She ducked around a corner, staying low under the waist-high counter displaying fleeting, ephemeral goods for sale. Catching her breath, Hawke slid upwards, tilting her head back and to the side to peer over the top, searching for the distinctive blue black skin, massive spiral horns. The beast couldn't be seen, but she could still hear him, scraping and tapping and huffing through the maze of the market.

Cullen slid down the opposite stall to rest on the ground nearby, his forearms draped over his knees and his head leaning back against the wooden side, watching her from under his lashes. His voice was all velvet when he spoke, "I wouldn't dream of giving you orders, kitten, but if I were you…" He bounced a hand lightly, as if considering, "I'd quit while I was ahead. While you still have our brave Commander to hold onto. Just seems incredibly sad, somehow, to fight to the bitter end and lose everything, just to assuage your pride." He shook his head, tsking, "Let me give you Cullen, lovely thing," he waved a hand at himself, "This face, this body. All those sweet memories. I'll let you keep them. Save what can still be saved, baby girl."

"I can still be saved," Hawke murmured, dropping back down to glance at the man.

He smiled at her, "Do you think so? Tell me, precious thing, if I'm sitting here, talking to you, what makes you think I don't know exactly where to find you?"

A sudden crash, a roar. Hawke jumped and looked up just in time to see a stall launch itself into the air, smashing to the side to slam into another stall down the line, then another, blown the other direction. A third, fourth, a line of destruction, heading directly for her. The devastation speeding up as each structure was thrown out of the way, the head of the beast appearing, a fierce snarl on his lips, his eyes locked on her.

Cullen was laughing.


	45. The Chase

_"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck me fuck."_

The words tumbled out between unsteady gasps. They punctuated each running step, her footfalls heavy as she raced away from the storm bearing down on her. Hawke found the long stair down into dark town and took it at a gallop, skipping steps, arms pinwheeling to keep her balance in the lack of rails or a wall or anything else to cling to.

In her haste, she missed a step, tilting out dangerously over the long tumble before jerking back, over-correcting and dropping to her rear on the edge of one stone landing. Sharp pain drove through her hips and back, sending sparks down her limbs and forcing a groan from her lips. Heedless, she pushed herself back up and kept going, concerned only with escaping the devastation throwing dust and rubble down the stairs after her.

Cullen was waiting for her at the bottom, arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning at his ease against a wall, one ankle crossed over the other, looking up at her with a lazy grin, "You're panicking, sweet. Deep breaths. It'll all be over soon."

Hawke ignored him, stumbling down the last few steps and careening off the wall beside him, pushing herself forward into the tunnels. She dodged a small group of clueless ghosts only to collide with the wooden edge of a cart, her own speed sending her over the edge to hit the ground hard on her hands and knees. Stinging tears dripped from her eyes as she cried out in pain, her abused body refusing for several precious seconds to do anything but writhe.

Cullen crouched next to her and hummed softly, tilting his head, a patently false expression of empathetic pain on his features, "Why subject yourself to such suffering, pet? Why not let me help you?"

Hawke swung the axe wildly in his direction, but he just dodged backward, laughing. He was still laughing when she wrenched herself back up to her feet and limped forward, turning a corner only to find him there, waiting, "Stop it," she cried, "Stop looking like him!"

The former templar raised his brows at her, "Why would I stop? This is my gift to you, darling." He turned as she passed him and easily kept pace at her side as she pushed onward, "This is the offer on the table, pet. Besides," he purred, leaning close with a wicked little smirk, "Isn't there a sort of symmetry to it? This face on the first man that broke you. And the last?"

She flinched away from him, axe clanging over stone as she stumbled into a wall before pushing off again. He grinned at the reaction, a couple of jogging steps pulling him back to her side, "Anything I want? Isn't that the deal, lover? Anything I want as long as I kill you when I'm done?" He raised a hand to his shoulder, "I do so solemnly swear that you will be dead when I'm finished with you, little one. I wouldn't lie about such things."

Hawke spun around a corner away from him and felt suddenly solid hands close around her shoulders in a punishing grip. The next Cullen in the endless line of Cullens slammed her bodily into the wall, sending another shock of pain screaming up her spine. Her legs went out and she wailed, going ragdoll limp in his grasp. The axe dropped from tingling fingertips, barely missing her foot as it clattered against the stone.

The demon leaned in, keeping her upright through his own weight pressing against her torso. His voice was a throaty growl against her cheek, "You aren't you, anymore, little thing. Everything you are, everything that shaped you, that defined you. I've taken it all. You only exist inside me. The smell of your mother's perfume, the color of your beloved's eyes, Patrick's inept, fumbling fingers as he tried so hard to give you something you couldn't even describe."

He leaned back a little, hands moving to grip her neck, thumbs jammed up under her chin to keep her face level with his, facing him, "You've lost everything, kitten. You'll never be whole again, without me. What will you be when I've ripped away the last shreds of your world, the last star in your sky? What would be the point of living outside of my arms?"

Hawke gasped in breath, weeping openly and beating weakly at the man's sides, her eyes rolling to avoid looking at him. She shook uncontrollably, irrepressible, hysterical shudders making her limbs useless and unruly. Her voice was a cracked, broken thing, breathy and frail, "What are you?"

Cullen shook his head, his expression tragic as he stroked strong fingers over her cheeks gently, "Oh, lovely, lovely girl. My soft, tender little thing. I'm--" He cut off abruptly, his shoulders twisting and his eyes casting to one side as if at a sound behind him. He hummed softly before looking back at her and pressing close to catch her tears on his tongue, "I must leave you for a bit, baby girl. Wait for me, my love, and when I return, I'll give you everything you need."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring against the skin, "This pain won't last forever, pretty little girl. Only a bit longer, now."


	46. The Cliff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicidal ideation. Cover your ears and yell LALALALALA if you need to.

_Passing out of the world, in that Void shall they wander;_  
_O unrepentant, faithless, treacherous,_  
_They who are judged and found wanting_  
_Shall know forever the loss of the Maker's love._  
_Only Our Lady shall weep for them._

Hawke had been judged, and found wanting. She didn't feel treacherous, but she also knew there were great, gaping wounds in her mind, torn and scattered drifts of random knowledge that floated free from any mooring to an event, or a place, or a person. She knew who the Maker was supposed to be, what the chant said about her, which lady in particular would weep for her, but not why she knew that, where she had learned it, who had told her.

She knew what blood tasted like. What it looked like when it flowed freely, the shade of rust brown it faded to on skin, the feel of it, tacky and flaky as it dried on her hands. The who and where and wherefore… That must be why she was unworthy, why she hadn't left this place, why the Maker had not seen fit to take her into his arms. She wasn't an apostate. Not anymore. Cullen had fixed that. Surely, just being a mage wasn't enough to consign her to the void. Was it?

Her eyes flickered, focusing. The wicked sharp, but dinged and badly dented blade of her axe was inches from her face, still lying where she had dropped it. She hadn't moved from the twisted huddle on her side against the wall where Cullen had released her. Was she waiting, as he told her to? She didn't know. That didn't seem like a good idea, and yet… Where else was she going?

She raised her gaze, looking past the silver edge and pink ribbons to the rest of Darktown. No. She wasn't in the void. Not yet. That was the void. The ghosts on their endless patrols, having their interminable conversations about non-existent things. That was the void. That was where she would end up, walking mindlessly around Kirkwall, blind, unthinking corpses watching the weather.

Or…

Hawke pushed herself up, slowly, her back howling anguish at her that she did her best to ignore. She pushed it down, the pain, the exhaustion, she shoved it back there with the voice, her voice she knew now, still shrieking in her head, still falling through the infinite abyss. But not for long.

She gripped the axe as she pulled herself up the wall to her feet, it's handle comfortable, familiar in her hand. And old friend, her last friend. Cullen didn't count, anymore. He wasn't still Cullen, not anymore than she was still Hawke. She was tattered and broken and he was a savage, sadistic, cold-blooded and achingly exquisite demon.

Hawke wandered the tunnels, staring at the phantoms, the long lost souls that haunted the dreamscape, wondering what they had thought, when they realized, when it had occurred to them what they were going to become. Did they welcome it? Or did they do this?

She could feel it, the relentless pressure, the weight of an inescapable nemesis, a final, retributive downfall. Fate was catching up to her. It slowed her stumbling steps, pressed uncomfortably against her chest, making each breath painful, each heartbeat seemingly the first ever, too sudden, too loud, too momentous and catastrophic.

The gargantuan carved slaves that decorated the cliff face covered their faces. Fitting, somehow. A silent, sightless vigil, ready and waiting to attend her final moments of consciousness. She gripped the wire fence in one hand and leaned over, looking down from the dizzying height to the rocks below. She could hear the wind roaring past, the crash of the waves, the creaking of the great chains. She hadn't learned to fly, and she couldn't remember, now, why she had thought she could.

Hawke knew, now, where solid ground was. It was there, waiting for her, legions below, and all she had to do was go to it. She climbed carefully over the fence, bare toes gripping at the crumbling stone of the edge. Her fingertips lingered on the safety rail before slipping away, and she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you still love me, don't even lie.


	47. Not Rescued

It hadn't been a constant battle. In fact, for the most part, the small party was ignored as long as they kept to themselves and avoided being showy, but the spirits and demons had been there. Rarely had they gone a couple of minutes without seeing something flashing by on the horizon or wandering the rocky crags. Some flitted close, curious, others kept their distance, but the fade was not an empty, desolate place. Not like this valley.

It had been some time now, in which they'd seen nothing. No flashes of light in the distance, no rush of air carrying far off voices, not a single wisp come to twine about their ankles like cats. It made Dorian jumpy, "You're sure?"

Fenris looked back at him from where he was several steps ahead on the long sloping path down. One arched brow was his only answer, but the elf had eloquent brows, and Dorian didn't need much translation. He looked past the man towards the circular stone building, the outside broken with archways, but the inside completely dark. He turned to scan the steep, broken mountains, still not seeing a single sign of life. He shot a worried look at Bull.

"Come on, vint," the qunari said softly, putting a hand between his shoulder blades to keep him moving, "Best way to disarm a trap is to trigger it."

"That's not comforting," he muttered, hunching his shoulders forward defensively, but he didn't argue, keeping his peace as he followed the elf out between two boulders and onto the flat dark shale of the valley floor. He stayed back, though, pulling his staff off his back as he watched the elf step forward, eyes narrowed as if squinting could make the interior brighter.

"Hawke!"

Silence greeted Fenris, and he took a couple of steps closer, moving his head now to peer into the black, listening. When several moment passed with no answer, the elf turned to look back at him, "You got a light--"

"Dead," the darkness finally answered in a deep, resonant voice, causing the man to cut off mid sentence and spin back around, pulling his sword free from it's scabbard. Varric, at the same moment, spun away from the archway, Bianca pointed now at the crags around them and moving closer to Fenris.

Before anyone could make demands, or even respond, the darkness dissolved, exposing the interior where a table matching the floor held the body of the Champion, quite naked and shiny red from wet blood. The demon was curled around her as if to protect her from them, the smaller set of arms petting over her stomach and smearing the blood around. He wasn't as tall or as wide as a pride demon, but he was quite a bit sharper, all wickedly pointed horns and fangs and claws and talons. Even his features were hard, angular planes.

Fenris' hand tightened on his sword and he stepped closer, "Unhand her!"

The demon just smiled at him, looking back down at the body he was curled around, "Still so feisty, Fenris." Reflective eyes flickered up to land on the elf before looking back down. He leaned forward to nuzzle between the Champion's beasts, licking at the still wet blood seeping from numerous shallow cuts and what looked like bite marks.

The elf lifted his sword and was one step into his charge when the demon reacted, bristling, massive hands gripping the edge of the table and leaning towards the elf. He roared, an ear-splitting howl that made Dorian's eyeballs vibrate and pushed Fenris back several steps.

"Uh. Guys. We got trouble!" Varric still hadn't looked at the demon, his eyes firmly on the rocky paths behind them. Paths that were rapidly filling up with shades. The dwarf took a step back and started firing into the mass, dropping demons with each shot. Dorian rushed to help, lifting his staff and aiming for the largest clump of shades. a split second later, a massive fireball exploded in the middle of them. He didn't pause to watch them die, risking a single glance back before the zeroed in on the next group. The demon had gotten off the table and was mid swipe at Bull who had moved up beside the elf.

Dorian lifted his arms, feeling more than hearing the rumble of thunder as a white hot flash of lightning scored down into the path, scattering shades and leaving a sticky black mist behind. He turned, scanning around the building. They were surrounded. He aimed a wall of ice at a group approaching from behind, noting with a distracted air when Hawke's body suddenly sat up, gasping, eyes wide and wild as she jerked around, panicked and confused like someone waking from a nightmare.

Remarkably mobile for a dead woman, Dorian had time to think before she moved suddenly, turning and launching herself at the back of the demon, what looked like a battle axe with rust-brown blotched, ratty pink ribbons trailing from the handle. No time. He spun again, pushing his arms forward, an expanding wall of fire rippling outward to clear one side of the pavilion.

The mage looked around to see Bull, a perfect black arc of arterial spray painted across his chest and face, standing in stunned silence, watching Hawke rip the axe from the neck of the demon with a horrible wet sound, only to bring it down again, her teeth bared in a silent snarl. Varric, still dealing with his side hadn't noticed, but the other three flinched as she had to use a foot , yanking and tearing through flesh to get the axe back only to swing it again, butchering what was left of the demon.

Varric finally dropped the last demon and turned around, lifting his crossbow only to stop when he saw her, eyes wide, "Hawke!"

The woman twitched, her shoulders jerking at the sound before she pulled the axe back with a squelch, looking up. Her eyes raked over them, narrowed, confused before they locked on Bull. She tilted her head at the qunari, tongue flicking to lick black blood from her lips.

Everyone was silent for a second before Bull broke the spell, "Anyone else as turned on as I am?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me?


	48. Undertow

Magic. She sucked it in with great gasping heaves, letting it wash through her, fill her to the brim and spill out as little sparks and puffs of chaos. She remembered, suddenly, what it was to breathe after suffocating for so long. She felt a great weight lift from her chest only to be replaced with the slick, stinging punctures and scrapes dotting her skin under several layers of blood, her own red mixing with the dark blue from Fizzgig, painting her in swaths and sections of color. Gore as art.

She leaned heavily against the table, staring at Bull. Bull. No, not Bull. What would Bull be doing in… Where in the void was she? Hardly mattered. The qunari was watching her with a glazed, dark-eyed look. She bared her teeth as him. "Sugar bear," she purred, watching the look of complete focused attention fade into apprehension, "Wanna dance?"

Bull took two large steps back from Hawke, one hand catching the elf at his side and dragging him back too, even as he tried to shrug the qunari off, his brows furrowed, "Hawke?" He looked concerned, maybe a bit panicked. Well. Good reason for that, he did just watch her butcher a friend of his.

The spy talked over him, ignoring his protests, "Nothing I'd love more, Cinnamon. But I think we should probably be going. Vint?"

Dorian startled, jumping as his gaze flickered from her to the qunari before he circled carefully around the table behind Bull, hovering at the elf's shoulder, not quite grabbing him, "Right, yes."

"What's wrong with her? Chuckles? Chuckles, it's us. It's me, Varric." That was the dwarf, the one holding a crossbow in one hand.

She turned her gaze on him, the smile still firmly in place, "Varric," she said softly, "Of course. Friends, aren't we?" She beckoned him.

Varric narrowed his eyes, and pointedly didn't get any closer, his gaze flickering from her to the elf, who now looked devastated. She wasn't sure what game they were playing, this time, but she wasn't falling for it.

"Nothing," Bull said, "Absolutely nothing is wrong with Cinnamon." He took a small step closer, moving slowly, his hands held out to the side before he reached one forward, offering it to her.

 _Safety._ She furrowed her brows, looking at the large hand, palm up, fingers curled just slightly, relaxed and inviting. That hand meant safety. She didn't know why it should, but she wavered. A second, her free hand twitching towards the invitation before stilling. At one time, she would have said Cullen's embrace meant safety.

She looked up, meeting the man's eye, his soft smile, the crinkle around his one good eye. Her head fell slowly to one side, a coy look, she knew, that look that always made rough men more pliable. Perhaps the blood would have ruined the effect, on some other man, but not Bull. He ate it up, his chest puffing up, peacocking. She stepped forward and reached for him.

The instant her fingertips touched his palm, the stillness of the pavilion exploded into frenzied motion. He grabbed her hand, yanking her forward even as she raised the axe and swung it. He plucked the offending weapon from her hand with the ease of any warrior facing a mage with a weapon she didn't actually know how to use. He stepped into her, pushing her back by the grip on her hand, forcing her shoulder around and slamming her back into his chest, his arm around her waist, trapping her now axeless arm under his bicep. His other hand came around, still holding the axe getting her into a bear hug and lifting her off her feet.

That's why she was a mage. Raw, unfocused power screamed through her veins and crashed into the man, knocking him backward with a grunt, but he didn't release her. He hissed, stumbling, eyes shut tightly and his grip getting tighter, pushing into the pain, welcoming it like an old friend even as the skin on his forearms split, "Vint!" he forced out between clenched teeth.

That sent Dorian into motion, reaching for the elf who was still standing there, dumbstruck and unmoving, staring at her. The elf jerked in his grip, struggling for a second before he went limp, letting the other mage drag him back away from the two. She lost sight of them as Bull turned and staggered towards the table.

She lifted her legs, catching her bare soles against the side of the dark shale table, letting his movement bend her knees before she shoved off, wrenching in his clutch, ramming against his chest and succeeding only in driving the air from her own lungs. She choked, coughing and gasping at the suddenly too thin air.

Bull used her distraction to drive forward, trapping her hips between the edge of the table and his weight, heaving, heavy, oddly name-appropriate breaths in her ear, "Hold on, Hawke. Hold on."

Hawke ignored him, shrieking a high-pitched, breathy sound before she coughed again, sucking in a healthier lungful of air to produce a far healthier scream. She could hear sobbing behind her. It wasn't the demon that had her in the stranglehold of massive arms. Someone else was weeping. Was it her? She couldn't tell. The air kept getting thinner, and her vision dulled, fuzzing out at the edges. Her head felt heavy, too heavy to hold up on her neck any longer, and she could feel Bull slumping down against her back, pushing her down to the table and resting his bulk on top of her.

She continued to struggle to the bitter end, fighting against the rising tide of oblivion with increasingly weaker kicks and claws and cries until she could feel herself being swept up, caught in the undertow, and dragged under.


	49. Through the Looking Glass

Hawke entered the real world for the second time the same way she entered the first, naked, screaming, and covered in blood.

There had been a short stop over in a muffled, fog-filled world colored in greys and blues. Brief impressions of circular trees with no leaves, fountains with no water, mirrors with no reflections. Shouting. The elf had apparently passed out at some point. Dorian and the Dwarf had to carry him, as Bull was still engaged in wrestling the mage into submission -- a goal that was going rather poorly. Movement, rushing down paths with the other mage panting and stumbling and stopping to retch at one point. Several agonizing moments spent standing in front of another mirror while Hawke did her damndest to gnaw off one of the qunari's arms, and then she was airborne, the giant having peeled her away from his shoulder and thrown her, bodily, into the eluvian.

She hit the ground and rolled into a fabric-covered bit of furniture in a dark room. Bull landed behind her with a grunt, now carrying the elf, and behind him the other two before Dorian waved a hand and the light from the eluvian cut out, drowning them in shadows.

Hawke coughed, groaning, her legs twitching uselessly as the briefly forgotten pain in her spine roared back to life with a vengeance. She kicked weakly, stretching and rolling to her stomach. Hands scrabbled for purchase on what felt like carpet, and she managed to get her knees curled up under her stomach before lurching upright. Fabric slipped off the furniture as she grabbed for purchase, sending her back down to her hands and knees where she stayed, crawling, panicked, away from the sounds behind her.

"Hawke!" A crash, the qunari tripping over items as he searched for her, "Hawke, dammit. Vint! We need some bloody light in here!"

Before the other mage could answer, Hawke found the door, the tiny strip of light underneath guiding her way. She climbed to her feet again and threw it open, rushing out into a courtyard. She made it two steps before she stumbled to a stop, flinching away from the too-bright sunlight assaulting her eyes, the too-loud sounds of people screaming at her appearance, the too-vivid colors and too-thick air.

She could hear Bull and his party rushing out the door behind her and felt large hands close around her shoulders, pulling her back against the giant's chest. Her head swam and spots of darkness floated behind her eyes. She couldn't breath, the sound of her own desperate gasping overriding the sounds of all the other panicking people in the garden. Hawke clawed at him, her back arching painfully as she fought for air.

Bull wrestled her down into the grass and got her wrists trapped between his thighs and her hips. He gripped her hair with one hand and her jaw with the other, holding her head still. He was yelling directly into her face but she couldn't understand, couldn't hear him past the thundering rush of blood in her ears. She could see him, vaguely, backlit by the dazzling sunlight, his good eye calm and his mouth moving.

His fingers tightened on her cheeks, forcing her mouth open as he leaned closer, "...Not dying! You are not dying! Not today! Now breathe, Hawke! Breathe!" She gasped with an awful grinding sound in her throat, the sheer certainty in his voice compelling her to comply. He nodded at that, "Yes. Good. Keep breathing," he shook her face when her eyes rolled, "Eyes on me, look at me! Breathe! Again! Like that. Just like that, Ataashi."

One of her hands wriggled free in the writhing and she clung desperately to the qunari's bicep, fingernails digging unremarked into the flesh that was already torn and bleeding from her earlier burst of magic. He released her hair to grip her wrist, though he didn't try to peel it off his arm, still nodding at her encouragingly as the gasps slowly turned into panting, and her eyes drifted closed.

A moment later, and the mage was unconscious, but at least breathing fairly normally. Bull pulled the hand off his arm, looking down at the blood-stiffened braid tied around the wrist. His thumb moveed, peeling the red-blue swirled hair apart to reveal the white underneath. He stared for a moment before his eyes caught on her forearm, and the block letters carved into the skin. His shoulders drooped as he closed his free hand over the word, palm pressing to the raised scars.

"Is she…?" Dorian was hovering at his shoulder, looking down at her. He glanced up at the vint, his hair mussed, dust and dirt and spots of dark blue blood spread across his cheeks like freckles. Bull wasn't sure he'd ever seen the mage look more beautiful.

"Don't know, Vint," he answered, setting her hand down carefully against her ribs and reaching for the man, "Don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for the bad, old joke.


	50. Leto

There was a collection of random items covering every free surface in the room. Knick knacks and brushes and bottles and utensils and candles in every size. Hair pins and ribbons and sticks and rocks. Some Hawke had appropriated, picking up and wandering off with, others the servants had brought and left behind when they noticed the odd behavior.

Hawke had memorized all of them, the exact placement of each rock, the exact curve of each ribbon. Sometimes she would switch two of them around, or sweep a couple to one side. She watched them. She spent hours, sometimes, watching them, when she wasn't wandering the ramparts or the hidden recesses of the keep. They never moved. They never flickered, or changed. She counted them, carefully noting the exact number of sticks, the complete inventory of ribbons, broken up by color. She wrote the totals in a little notebook on her bedside table and compared them to the day before.

She was as sure as she could be, that this was reality. But it had only been five days. She would have to keep checking.

Right now, however, she was finishing the simple breakfast the servant had brought and trying to work up the courage to find the commander. Maybe say she was sorry for her reaction the last time he'd tried to visit. The first time, the only time. There had been screaming involved. She might have stabbed him with a salad fork, but no one could prove that and the victim wasn't talking. Either way, she figured if this were reality, and he were the real commander, he might be owed an apology.

The knock on the door broke into her thoughts and she looked up to see Leto, standing in the doorway, a small box under one arm and that smile. He always smiled at her, though around everyone else he seemed far more reserved. She had noted the red ribbon around his wrist that matched hers, however. He must feel some kinship with her through their mutual affection for Fenris.

She set her spoon down in the half-finished bowl of porridge and pushed it to one side, gesturing to the chair. He perched in the chair uncomfortably, staring at the box in his hands for a long moment before he finally set it down on the table, careful, precise movements, as if it were a decision made final, "I've brought you something," he said in his soft growl, glancing up at her before looking back down and pushing the box towards her, "It's yours."

Hawke stared at the box, then up at the elf. A moment before she reached out, trailing a fingertip over one corner. His reaction made her nervous. She smiled to clear the anxiety in the air, "Can never have too many boxes."

Leto quirked his lips at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He reached over, very nearly touching her hand before he seemed to think better of it and let the hand settle to the table, stretched halfway across. He wouldn't touch her, but he so obviously wanted to, "You asked me, once, to remember everything in it. I thought perhaps…" He pressed his lips together, forrest green eyes searching hers before he finished, "I should have known you would test me on it, eventually."

She narrowed her eyes at that and caught the corner of the lid on her finger, flipping it up and off the box. Her braids. The world went still for a long moment as she stared before picking up the box and spilling them out over the table. She recognized them, from the fade. She knew each of them though she could not attach them to anything. She counted them reflexively. Six braids. Six. She picked out the long white one that matched the now stained and ratty braid around her wrist and looked up at the elf.

"The Arishok," he said, glancing at the word carved into her arm before he looked back up at her. A deep breath, "It's a title, and a name. There's another Arishok, now, but this one, he was in Kirkwall, he and his men were stranded, and were occupying a walled compound in the docks. The first time you met him…"

Lunch came and went. Dinner came and went. Leto built a fire when the daylight ran out, and sent a servant for more food in the middle of the night, and come dawn, he had recounted every story he knew about every braid in her box. Varric was in the stories, and the commander, and others she had no braids for, but he assured her they yet lived.

She laughed, and she cried, and flatly refused to believe some of them, but he just smiled at her, that gentle, familiar smile and assured her that they were all true. Even the one about kidnapping Leto and smuggling him into a bolthole to discuss his first smile, though he was a little vague about how the meeting had gone.

Hawke did not fail to notice that none of the stories were about Fenris. Perhaps it was too painful to speak of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I promise some AdoriBull fluff, next, do you promise not to mail me dead rats?


	51. The Fire

A week after rescuing Hawke, Bull looked like he had tangled with a bag full of enraged weasels. His torso from neck to hips and both arms were covered in cuts and bruises, the cuts fading, the bruises now colored a sickly yellow green. Several of the more interesting injuries were still bandaged and were expected to scar in ways Krem had claimed to be jealous of, though he'd seemed more fascinated that Bull had willingly entered the fade than anything that Hawke had done.

It was one of those bandages the mage was unwrapping in the small, but private, room Bull had managed to score as the leader of the Chargers, "You know I can change that, right? Not hard to reach," the merc said, wriggling the fingers of his other hand.

"After the mess you made of my shoulder? I'm surprised Krem trusts you to bind your own breasts," Dorian countered, pulling the last of the linen carefully from the largest cut, stretched over his forearm where they'd had to stitch the edges back together.

"Harness," Bull growled playfully, "You know we have ways of dealing with smart mouthed mages."

"Oh, is this the part where you threaten you sew my mouth closed? You wouldn't dare." The mage lifted his chin imperiously, "My lips are far too pretty."

The qunari smiled, "No need to be so permanent. Sure I could find something else to keep your mouth quiet. And I bet those lips are even prettier all swollen and pink." He grunted when the tevinter poked the large bruise covering his rib cage with a finger and narrowed his eye.

"Your threats would be far more intimidating if you weren't convalescing like an old man after a little spat with a small woman," Dorian said, glaring right back at the giant.

Bull grinned, "I'll tell Hawke you said so."

"Please don't," the mage grinned back, "I like my skin intact." The mage looked down, smearing the potent smelling paste the doctor had given him over the cut before he pulled out a fresh linen bandage from the basket of supplies at his ankle.

They were quiet as he carefully re-wrapped the bandage, the qunari leaning forward, his free hand rubbing absently over a knee, up to the thigh, back down. It was hard to think with the giant so close. Dorian cleared his throat self-consciously, "Uh…" He thought he was better at this sort of thing, "About what you said… In the…" He trailed off, twisting his lips.

Bull hummed a question at him, large, hot palm pressing flat against the mage's leg, squeezing, and Dorian looked up, licking his lips. He forgot suddenly what he was going to say and ducked his head back down, focusing on the safety of the bandage, on getting the end tucked just so. He fished around for something, anything to say, "Uh. There are no waltzes."

The mercenary furrowed his brows and tilted his head, "What, now?"

"Waltzes," the mage repeated, nodding and staring intently at the basket as he packed the supplies away, "That's an Orlesian thing. Tevinter balls don't really have a waltz."

Bull's eyebrows untangled and he smiled, "Is that really the conversation you want to have?" The mage huffed a breath and went silent, finishing his packing and now playing with the edge of the basket where the weave was beginning to fray. The merc lifted his arm, tapping a couple of fingertips under Dorian's chin, "Look at me, Vint." A second before the vint managed to meet his eyes, chewing on his bottom lip until Bull smoothed a thumb across it, pulling it gently from between the mage's teeth, "Ask," the giant said, his voice barely a whisper.

Dorian's eyes were wide, bright and beautifully expressive, broadcasting the vulnerability he fooled himself into thinking he kept hidden. "Kiss me," he breathed.

It wasn't a question, but Bull nodded as if it were. He plucked the basket out of the man's lap and dropped in on the floor before reaching for the hand left hovering. He pulled the mage closer, coaxing him across the narrow divide between chair and bed, the giant's free hand trailing over the vint's back and hip to his thigh, urging him up onto bed on his knees, straddling the qunari's massive thighs.

Releasing Dorian's hand, Bull tangled his fingers into the short hair at the back of his scalp and pulled the mage into a soft kiss, warm lips brushing, barely there, teasing the man into pressing closer. A soft sound, half sigh, half whine and the vint curled his arms around the giant's shoulders, deepening the kiss into a hungry thing, pushing the qunari back onto the bedspread and landing on his large chest.

Bull groaned, breaking the kiss to hitch a breath, "Gently," he grunted, "I'm an old man who got in a little spat with a small woman."

Dorian pushed himself up to lift his weight off Bull's chest, grinning coyly, "If the Chargers could see you now. Mewling like a newborn kitten."

The giant glowered a second before his fist tightened in the mage's hair and his free hand slid between them, pulling at the closures on his own pants, "Smart mouthed mage," he growled. Dorian licked his lips and lowered his eyes, fanning his lashes. The man blushed like a maid, causing Bull to groan for an entirely different reason, "Perfect," he murmured, pressing the mage's head down, "You are perfect."

Dorian backed off the edge of the bed and eagerly pulled at the pants, getting them off Bull's legs and throwing them into the chair before he dropped to his knees between the giant's thighs, arms hugging the qunari around the waist as he buried the thick qunari member into the wet heat of his mouth.

Bull leveraged himself upright with an elbow and untangled the mage's arms from his hips, pushing them down to leave his view unobstructed. He hummed at the sight, pet the mage's hair, traced his fingertips over the hollowed cheeks and moist, clinging lips, "Dorian. Scion of house Pavus," he murmured, smiling, "Pride of the Altus, proud son of Tevinter, with his precious, pretty lips around my cock."

The blush heightened, spreading rose colored over the mage's cheeks, but he only moaned softly, pressing closer, pushing Bull's thighs farther apart with his shoulders and taking his entire length, lips pressed firmly against the pubic bone, wantonly displaying his skill. The feel of the man's throat constricting around the head of his manhood dragged a moan from Bull's lips and he leaned forward, sliding a hand down to stroke the mage's neck, rubbing, squeezing gently, following the path of his cock.

"So good at it, too. So avid," Bull said as he slid his hands to hold the man's head steady, still, his member still nestled at a comfortable depth in his mouth where Dorian contented himself with suckling, "Look at me, Vint. Show me those beautiful eyes." On command the mage looked up at him, swallowing around the qunari's penis and taking a deep, hitching, nervous breath.

Bull smiled at him, rubbing his thumbs over the pink cheeks, "A gift. Priceless. Treasure beyond counting." Tears welled unbidden and surprised in the mage's eyes and tumbled down his cheeks as he let his eyes close again. The merc hushed him softly, wiping them away, "No shame, Vint. I'm proud. Proud and so very lucky." A second before the man could open his eyes again, looking back up. Defenseless, open, trembling under the giant's hands, a quiet, hungry sound in his throat.

He nodded, lacing his fingers together at the back of the man's neck and using the grip to move that sweet, suckling mouth over his cock, "I'm going to to howl when I come, vint. Loudly. Shake the windows and shatter glasses at the bar downstairs," he panted softly for a bit, catching his breath in order to continue, "Lots of people down there. And every last one will know. I got you, vint. I won." He hissed softly, pulling one hand away to rest on the bed, leaning back, thrusting up off the bed and into Dorian's mouth, "Claimed my prize. Utter, unmitigated victory with a pristine, exquisite prize."

And he did howl. And he was loud. And he was right. Dorian was stunning, magnificent with his swollen, pink lips and rumpled hair, panting and clinging to Bull's hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure this balances out a good four chapters of complete wretchedness and unqualified disaster.
> 
> Also? Pronoun juggling in gay sex scenes? Sucks.


	52. Little Dragon

Skyhold was sleeping, the halls deserted but for the guardsman at the far end of the hall, lounging against a wall. He glanced her direction when Hawke slipped out of her room, but made no other move. She raised a hand at him before crossing the stone floor and down a couple of doors to Leto's room. By rights, he should be sleeping with the rest of the keep, but he wasn't. His quiet rumble answered her tentative knock almost immediately.

His room wasn't as big as hers. A small bed, a tiny table, a little stove in the corner for warmth. It was dark, the coals in the stove banked down, but a sliver of the moon was out, and her eyes were adjusted. The elf was sitting in the bed, propped against the headboard. Hawke closed the door behind her and shifted awkwardly before she shrugged, "Nightmares," she said by way of explanation.

Leto sat up, swinging his legs off the bed to the floor to make room for her on the only seating available and she skittered over to curl onto the end, her bare feet stuffed up into her long robe. The man leaned forward to pull the blanket up around her shoulders and she smiled.

He watched her while she shifted nervously, her hands wringing together in her lap, seconds passing in silence. Finally, he cleared his throat, "Have you remembered anything?"

Hawke hitched a shoulder up, glancing at him, "Flashes. Sound and color," she shook her head and went back to staring at the stove. Another handful of heartbeats before she drew a breath, looking at him, "Leto…" One hand waved in a vague flutter before stilling, "The ribbon…"

A soft exhale. Leto's hand closed around the ribbon on his wrist and he looked away, his lips tight, a pained expression crossing his face before he forced a smile. His voice sounded forced out, reluctant but unwilling to deny her, "Your father gave it to you on your tenth birthday," he answered, then let it drop with no other explanation.

She watched him while he watched the floor. Soft crackles from the stove. Boots against stone outside the window. Her own breath sounding loud in the stillness. Finally, "Leto."

The elf looked up at her, his face in shadow, but his hair backlit from the moon, sparking silver at the movement. He didn't say anything, so she continued, "Who is Fenris?"

The elf spread his hands across the bed, gripping the edge while she shoulders hunched forward defensively. He took a deep breath, but still didn't say anything.

She stared at the hand closest to her, the red ribbon around the wrist. Her movement was tentative, reaching out, fingernails catching at the fabric. He watched the motion, his own fingers flexing, lifting from their hold on the bed before dropping back down.

"Sometimes, when I wake up," she murmured, her hand dropping to smooth the blanket near his hand, "For just a second, I think I can smell him." She looked up at him. He wouldn't look at her, "Hear his voice," his fingers tightened, clutching the fabric, knuckles going white, "Feel him, next to me."

Leto sucked in a breath and rocked forward slightly. His voice was rough with emotion she couldn't quite identify, "Little dragon--"

"Yes," she said, "That's the voice." The elf went very still, carefully controlled, contained. Slowly, he turned his head to look up at her. She gasped, a forlorn little sound, her face crumpling into the pain, "Please," she breathed, her voice breaking in the middle of the word, "I think I might--" she choked on the words, shaking her head, "I don't want to--" A hard inhale before she could force any more words past the rock in her throat, "Please be Fenris."

He was at her side in an instant, arms gathering her up and pulling her into his embrace. Strong hands roamed, petting at her hair, down her back and arms, one brushed at the side of her neck before cupping a cheek, holding her where she had collapsed against his chest, "I've got you," he whispered into her hair, "I've got you, little dragon. I'm here. It's me. You remember me."

He feathered a kiss against her forehead before he moved, lifting and pulling her up the bed to tuck her into his blankets, his weight heavy against her chest, his heat dispelling the chill in the room. She clung to his shoulders, breathing in great gasps of relief even though she couldn't make the tears stop falling, "Fenris," she murmured against his chest, "Fenris, Fenris, Fenris," a mantra, burning the name into her mind as if afraid it would slip away from her.

He held her until she went limp and exhausted beneath him, all the emotion washed through her, leaving her empty and warm and sleepy. Another kiss at her forehead, then her temple, then he was stretching out at her side and pulling her closer to his chest, fingers in her hair as she drifted, "Don't leave me, again, little dragon," he said, the last words she heard before sleep took her, "I can't fly with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No plans, currently, for a next trick. I think this one suffered for lack of sufficient head cannon. Should have been aged a bit more.
> 
> But there were Arishok cuddles, so it can't have been all bad.


End file.
